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BLACK BUTTERFLIES 




" Happening to pause, her eyes light upon his portrait. 

— Page 20. — Frontispiece. 



Black Butterflies. 



Black Butterflies 



Bv BERTHE ST. LUZ 



y 



'* He told a tale as wild as sad ; 

And they who listened deemed it mad — 
Mad as the delirious dream 
Of one who, on an Indian stream 
Floating in a Morphean bark, 
Feeds on the charmed lotus-leaf — 
While under the palms, in visions brief, 
Through shadows of sunset, golden-dark, 
The graceful leopard and leopardess stand, 
With plumed tribes on the yellow sand, 
To gaze with steadfast, wondering eyes 
Where the feeding dreamer floating lies." 



" Wake ! For the Sun, who scatter'd into Flight 
The Stars before him from the Field of Night, 

Drives Night along with them from Heav'n, and strikes 
The Sultan's Turret with a Shaft of Light." 



mimmiuMmMmmM aMBmmmmmmcmsa 



R. F. FENNO & COMPANY 

9 and 1 1 East Sixteenth Street, New York 



1905 






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2?/dr£ Butterflies 



Copyright, 1 905 
By R. F. Fenno & Company 



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To the Noble Order of Mystic Shriners 
This book is respectfully dedicated. 



Black Butttrfiiet 



Black Butterflies 

i 

"Too much of Duty, and too little Love." 
He pays me in the coin he owes me not. 

A long, broad column of crimson and golden sun- 
light stretches far across the polished, rug-strewn 
floor, flecking with radiant dots the blood-red roses 
drooping dejectedly from their thorny stems, 
crushed tightly within the wide mouth of a huge 
brass jar; glinting boldly about the pictured face 
upon the wall, dappling the dusty, gilt-lettered vol- 
umes arranged so methodically along the shelves, 
taking unwonted liberties with the nude charms of a 
marble, vine-wreathed Bacchante, anon dipping 
roguishly into Daphne's daintily-carved bosom in a 
vain endeavor to further explore her hidden loveli- 
ness; dancing prankishly, with audacious disregard 
for either reverence or dignity, about a hideous, 
bronze, snub-nosed, scowling image of Buddha 
flanked by a pair of squat, sardonic-looking idols, 
then prowling, searches the dim space and purpling 
shadows to reach, touch Lalage's head, entangling 
itself within the mazy, loose abundance of hair, tip- 

9 



io Black Butterflies 

ping each wayward tress into an irradiant blaze of 
glory, as she stands aghast at the silent atmosphere 
of gloom. For after the recent stealthy tread and 
low, muffled voices of the mourners — the place seems 
unearthly quiet, solemn, empty. 

Idly twisting the heavy ring — almost barbaric in 
size — about her finger, she pauses, hesitating in the 
centre of the room, her duty ended. 

What a dull, gray word is Duty. Upon what a 
cheerless, unpleasant path it leads us ; how it blisters 
the feet of any conscience-stricken creature until 
weary and heart-sad we mortals, fainting and dis- 
couraged, pause upon the narrow, rugged road. 
Along each side, within easy reach, grow clusters of 
fragrant, luxuriant flowers, their sweet, sleepy per- 
fume stealing, deadening our moral senses as they 
droop, entangled, imprisoned amongst their own 
foliage and splendor. 

Beyond, to our left, stretch cool, green fields, 
shaded thickly by tall, graceful trees, heavily laden, 
bending downward, overburdened by their luscious 
fruits, pleasant to the eye, sweet to the taste. A few 
steps will take us hence. Every light and shadow 
which creeps, plays across the blooming fields, wan- 
tonly tempts, woos us hither. Yet 'tis written we 
must remain in this rough, barren path. Yea! 
Whilst the hot, dry wind blows out of the south, 
scorching our aching brow and trembling limbs. We 
must refrain from plucking one single bud of pleas- 



Black Butterflies 1 1 



ure, nor dare to lift from the ground the discarded 
produce which the overfreighted boughs, unable 
longer to support their weight, have dropped. 

Nay, we must be duly thankful for the few stray 
petals and leaves which have, perchance, blown 
hither, falling in the dusty road for our bleeding feet 
to press. 

Exhausted, in dumb protest against Fate, we lag, 
hesitate, muttering defiantly, rebel, and sink, faint- 
ing with misery, until Conscience — the unseen cord 
by which we are led — is suddenly jerked, pulling us, 
dragging us to our feet again, and Duty stands out 
clearly against the sky of worldly circumstances in 
direct contradiction to ease or pleasure, its grim, un- 
smiling face turned ever forward, and with threaten- 
ing, uplifted finger beckons us onward. 

The murmur of a near-by stream ripples sooth- 
ingly on our weary ears ; mingled with a lark's fresh, 
joyous notes encourages, sustains us. Feebly, but 
determinedly, we stagger to our feet again, buoyant 
with the hope that some day we may gather great 
armfuls of those blooming roses growing so invit- 
ingly, dangerously near; some day hence we may 
hope to pluck and feast upon that cool, ripe, golden 
fruit for our reward, but at present we must be con- 
tent to trudge, stumbling, on — on. 

Lalage still twists the ring about her finger. It 
has been a hard task-master — a veritable Shylock — 
this massive piece of gold, ever exacting its due to 



12 Black Butterflies 



the least iota, and now that release has come, and 
marital obligations forever over, she dimly begins 
to realize the enormity of her martyrdom during the 
past seven years. 

Since the bond which bade her wear this badge of 
wifehood is broken, why retain longer a constant re- 
minding source of past horrors? So in accordance, 
straightway suiting the action of thought, slipping 
the ring from its place, she, with a swift, fierce 
movement and wide sweep of arm, flings it far 
across the sward, its rapid transit beneath the hot 
noon sun forming a brazen crescent studded with a 
thousand scintillating stars, ere descending amid the 
rhododendrons growing dense in great white clusters 
near the edge of the lawn. 

Absently smiling bitterly meanwhile, she rubs the 
disfiguring indentment which the circlet has caused, 
but that, alas! is trivial to the ugly imprint seared 
so deeply on her soul which neither time nor any 
charm can ever completely eradicate. 

By degrees this queer, apathetic feeling of un- 
reality vanishes, and the extreme novelty of the sit- 
uation is decidedly pleasing. There is a sense of 
dreamy repose and rest — such rest as she has never 
known before, whilst her altered position is as yet 
incomprehensible; merely a faint, blissful, shadowy 
consciousness of some great, unforeseen happiness. 
This sweet lassitude about her is an exemption from 
suffering and bondage. 



Black Butterflies 13 

Is there not invariably something mysteriously 
holy in the first faint light of early dawn which 
heralds the coming day, always so gratefully wel- 
come, more especially when one has journeyed 
through many hours of darkness ; and we reverently 
greet its advent with an exhilarating impulse to ac- 
complish some deed more worthy than hitherto at- 
tempted or achieved. And when later, in the east, 
the sun slowly bursting forth from his purple fetters, 
sheds warm, bright rays, falling like balm upon our 
weary souls, is it not a covenant, universally pro- 
claiming the dear Creator has us ever in His 
memory ? 

Childishly, Lalage smooths the soft, clinging folds 
of the mourning gown which for the first time she is 
wearing. This black garb, the mirror opposite 
whispers, is essentially becoming. She notes com- 
placently how its sombre hue enhances the creamy 
whiteness of neck, cheek and brow above which the 
rough, twisted mass of ruddy hair glows thrice radi- 
antly. 

Languidly emerging from the gloomy interior, she 
leans against the casement, watching the sun glim- 
mering upon the tamarind tree. Her whole being 
is suffused with a glad sense of gratitude, for to her 
the world, the sun, the air — which seems filled with 
music touched by unseen fingers — appear different. 
And she would fain embrace shrub, leaf and tree, and 
kiss the slight breeze which so lightly skims her lips. 



14 Black Butterflies 

So intensely has she suffered that the absence of 
habitual mental pain is a mighty relief — and the 
knowledge that she is free by heaven's condescension 
and decree; free forever from degradation. Has it, 
indeed, come to an end, this thing, this blight which 
had obscured heaven and earth? 

She might — shuddering at the thought — she 
might have been compelled to live years longer yoked 
to one who, no matter how private or what secluded 
spot she sought, had the hated right to enter. 

But now, ecstatically, now she can be alone — en- 
tirely alone at will, her mind and body free, sacred 
to herself alone. For he — whose presence had filled 
her cowering soul with repulsion — has no further 
power over her — none — exultingly — none, none. 

From the tamarind tree she watches the sun quiv- 
ering its heated rays over grass and leaf and hotly 
athwart the sun-dial around which two immense 
black butterflies flutter in persistent circles, bumping 
together, then separating with many dizzy gravi- 
tations. 

And now her eyes travel far beyond, to the ragged 
ridge of hills where dimly defined, soft, lacy clouds 
float in a variegated haze, merging into feathery 
banks of amethyst whose mysterious deeps are lined, 
richly shaded with strands of saffron, pale rose and 
lilac. 

To Lalage, that floating mass, partly veiling the 
solemn sky shimmering above like a cerulean lake, 



Black Butterflies 15 

seems suggestive of nature's poetry fraught with de- 
lightful hidden secrets, as in rapt contemplation her 
eyes follow the vaporish mass slowly drifting toward 
England. What wisdom of the world does it wit- 
ness — contain? What wondrous sights behold? 
Shall she not, perchance, some day share its marvels, 
its secrets and its sins? 

In this romantic vein she peoples her wandering 
mind with a multitudinous, fantastic population, 
gay, daring, enchantingly beautiful, who, floating 
before her gaze, laughingly beckon her presence. 

These visions are abruptly interrupted and her 
attention attracted by various peculiar sounds issu- 
ing from the farthest corner of the room, at which 
she instantly turns, moving mechanically toward a 
huge cage wherein numerous gorgeous tropical birds, 
the pride of her heart, are imprisoned. 

Murmuring a few words of endearment, she calls 
each pet by name, recoiling with a stifled exclama- 
tion as the beautiful creatures, companions of her 
many lonely hours and to whom for months past it 
has been her daily task and pleasure administering to 
their wants, which attentions, hitherto so eagerly ac- 
cepted, now seem to her magnified senses to assume 
a different aspect, and, unresponsive to the caressing 
tones of her voice, regard her with disapproval and 
cold, reproachful eyes ; and suddenly seem, as if by 
magic, bereft of their erstwhile brilliant plumage, 
which to her distorted imagination appears dull, 



16 Black Butterflies 



lusterless, the gay, pretty feathers draggled, broken, 
from their restless movements in ceaseless futile ef- 
forts to escape. 

And now, as for the first time she interprets the 
wistful longing in those eyes, Lalage's heart smites 
her for her selfish cruelty, and in feverish haste, seiz- 
ing the structure heedless of the affrighted inmates, 
who, uttering shrill cries of terror, flutter, dash their 
breasts wildly against the iron bars, she drags it 
toward the window. It requires no small effort to 
perform this feat, for the cage is an immense con- 
trivance, heavy, cumbersome. She succeeds at last, 
however, and breathlessly, with swift, trembling 
fingers, proceeds to throw wide open the door. 

An unlooked-for occurrence which the startled cap- 
tives are, for the nonce, slow to understand the 
meaning of, and hop listlessly about, seemingly 
either through stupidity or fear loath to avail them- 
selves of the coveted opportunity in sight, until 
finally one, a magnificent paroquet, after eyeing the 
aperture askance and dimly comprehending that at 
last escape is possible, vigorously shakes his rumpled 
plumage, and, haughtily erecting his scarlet crest, he, 
more venturesome than the rest, closely accompanied 
by a gaudy parrot, daringly decides to lead the way 
to liberty. 

These two, upon reaching threshold and sill, burst 
into harsh, discordant screams of astonished delight, 
and now, followed simultaneously by their rakish 



Black Butterflies 17 

fellows, are soon disporting themselves, triumph- 
antly spreading their cramped wings in freedom's 
realm ; and turn, wheel, dip, forming bright blotches 
of color against the azure sky, until, gaining their 
bearings, they soon disappear, excepting the paro- 
quet, who, through some whim, still lingers, saucily 
flashing his gay pinions and sailing undecidedly 
about. 

Who knows ! Possibly a wee touch of sentimental 
regret touches his tiny heart at forsaking her whose 
especial favorite he was. Thrice he circles the sun- 
dial in playful pursuit of the butterflies, then grace- 
fully alights upon a topmost leaf of the tamarind 
tree, which bends swaying with his weight. For one 
brief moment he perches there, industriously plum- 
ing himself, then wends his way straight to the trees 
of the dense, dark jungle from whence he came, 
lying away off toward Simla in the distance, she 
watching his flight with sad, dark, dreamy eyes. 

" Free, free, free ! " 

Soft — slowly she repeats the word, first with awe 
incredulously, then exultingly, her heart stirring 
meanwhile in a queer tumult of mad, fearful joy, as 
shadowy visions of youthful imaginations, filled 
with hitherto unknown sentiments, delightfully 
vague, blissful anticipations of what is left; possi- 
bilities, longings, unintelligible yearnings, feminine 
expectations looked at years ago through girlish, 
rose-colored spectacles ere her fate had doomed those 



1 8 Black Butterflies 



pretty fancies to be knocked over like nine-pins, now 
alluringly obtrude themselves before her mental 
gaze and dazzle with their immense splendor her 
whose worldly experience has been limited to the 
narrow environments of mere domestic life. 

During those seven years of loveless wifehood, 
Lalage required no staid duenna ; her feet had no in- 
clination to stray from virtue's territory. Honor 
was her sentinel, and those sweet, tender fancies, 
half-uttered wishes, were in truth repugnant to the 
inner sanctuary of her being. True, she desired 
love. This desire, however, was not actuated by so 
base a motive as passion. In short, she merely 
dared indulge in day-dreams, a trifle wild, maybe, 
but certainly nothing more serious than those which 
the chastest spirits may entertain. 

Wifehood is world-manufactured, but love is en- 
tirely nature's offspring, consequently more abso- 
lute in its influence which controls the universe and 
wondrous realm of romance. And surely one may 
crave its possession without censure : Love worthy 
of existence, must be unsullied ; 'tis a crime to defile 
it. The divine flower of womanhood cannot bloom 
without love. A sickly bud may appear, to speedily 
languish when swept by the chilling breath of un- 
congeniality, and perish in a vain endeavor to peep 
over the high matrimonial wall behind which it. 
pines. 

The fibres of Lalage' s heart are not yet attuned 



Black Butterflies 19 

to the theme of love. When love touches them they 
will burst forth in a furious melody. 

Quietly, with every turn and movement suggest- 
ing the lithe, supple grace of a young leopardess, 
back and forth she sweeps aimlessly. Lalage has a 
tremendous stride owing to her athletic build and 
remarkable length of limb. Beautiful, too — fear- 
fully beautiful in her rounded symmetry of shape. 
Tall, straight as a sycamore combined with the rare 
stately pliancy of the palm. And those long, meas- 
ured, masculine steps become her royally. 

The room, a spacious apartment with delicately- 
tinted walls and long, wide windows screened closely 
with green Persians to exclude the glare, save one 
from whence a rainbowed flood of light falls, af- 
fords her ample space in which to move. 

A delicious coolness prevails, characteristic of the 
Indian bungalow whose outside walls, thickly sur- 
rounded, are protected by trees which temper the 
sun rays beating monotonously upon their close- 
tufted heads. 

Lalage is permitted no immediate repose — her 
present perturbed state countervails that. As her 
mind saunters whithersoever it lists, the predominat- 
ing thought is her freedom, as with hands clasped 
loosely in a manlike attitude behind, a gay tune 
breathing from her smiling lips, she, in blissful con- 
templation of the future, moves hither and thither, 
crossing and recrossing the strip of brilliant sunlight. 



20 Black Butterflies 

One could imagine this woman, despite the nun- 
like raiment, with her dauntless bearing and splen- 
did physique, despite sundry incipient whimsical 
traits in the lovely face wherein there is a baffling 
something, changeable as a cloudy sky, unerringly 
indicating frailness of character — yet despite all this, 
one could easily imagine her a Joan of Arc, an 
Amazon leader with brass shield and helmet resting 
on her unruly brows, inspired, commanding, amid 
martial music and the sullen boom and roar of war, 
urging, encouraging mighty hordes to victory or 
challenging a foe to mortal combat. 

Yes, one could imagine all this and more, as she 
turns about, her excited mind lightly treading the 
intractable mazes of wandering fancies, until, hap- 
pening to pause, her eyes alight upon his portrait, 
and with a nervous start she draws away and all 
pleasurable illusions take to their heels. For he, as if 
divining her recent thoughts, deeply affronted glares 
down with a mixture of anger and mocking derision, 
as if sternly forbidding anything beautiful to come, 
she, meanwhile, steadily returning the glance with 
mocking defiance. 

A full minute remains she thus, then suddenly a 
violent tremor assails her, a sob bursts convulsively 
from her distorted lips, and now, strange to say, 
after all those dazzling day-dreams, exciting glamor 
of thoughts, comes the reaction, and caprice, or call 
it what you will, the utter inconsistency of woman's 



Black Butterflies 21 

nature illustrates itself, for, a swift whirlwind of 
keenest grief assailing her, she sinks to the floor in 
an abandonment of uncontrollable despair. And lo ! 
I blush, for my warrior queen is attacked by a very 
unromantic spell of feminine hysteria. 

Remorse sweeps her soul, and spectrelike her con- 
science arises, upbraiding her with her past sins and 
ingratitude toward him. Remembrance of his few 
petty kindnesses are exaggerated into chivalric deeds, 
his numerous faults, harsh actions condoned, ob- 
literated completely from her memory, and in con- 
trast her own casual shortcomings — at most nothing 
more serious than mere fits of girlish temper, trifles 
light as air, really — are conned over, enlarged upon, 
till they in comparison assume such magnitude as to 
appal, overwhelm her with her transgressions. 

Weepingly she recollects his every kindly act, 
and ah, with what retrospective pain comes the vivid 
remembrance of a jeweled bracelet with which he 
sought to surprise her, and after clasping it on her 
arm bent and kissed the warm, white flesh, and how 
coldly she repulsed him. And then again, once when 
lying ill, how softly he had entered the darkened 
chamber, how deftly, with almost womanish-like 
tenderness, smoothed her hot, tumbled pillows whilst 
she ungratefully shrank from his attempted caress. 

Yes, yes ! In dismay she sees it plainly now. Oh, 
that generous love! How cruelly had she repudi- 
ated, wantonly tossed it aside as so much dross. And 



22 Black Butterflies 

then, too, his age, which she had hitherto considered 
so extreme, seemed lessened, for surely sixty and 
twenty-four is not such a vast disparity, after all. 

A great loneliness and timidity seizes her, to be sole 
guardian of her own individuality. Truly the re- 
sponsibilities of life are alarming. Never, in the 
whole twenty-four years of her existence has she felt 
so utterly alone and in need of her natural protector, 
her counsellor. But ah! That brave spirit has 
passed away forever, that loyal heart, so true, so 
kind, is cold in death, and she sobs despairingly. 

Oh, to atone to that noble soul! If those past 
seven years could be mercifully recalled — blotted 
from her memory, or, better still, lived over again — 
how differently she would act, what a fond, loving 
wife, how patient, obedient, true, she would be ! Oh, 
for the power to summon him back from that eternal 
shore, if only for one brief moment, to assure him of 
her everlasting fidelity. Beseech his forgiveness 
upon bended knees for past errors against him whom 
she now lavishly endows with gifts, nobleness of 
character, qualities he never possessed nor could lay 
the remotest claim to. For a more vile, graceless 
old individual never breathed to whom she now men- 
tally erects a pedestal whereon he is speedily en- 
throned and before whose dear image — which she 
now regards with the reverential awe and admira- 
tion of a neophyte for some godlike hero — she weep- 
ingly prostrates herself, figuratively rending her gar- 



Black Butterflies 23 

ments, hem to hem, heaping the dust of censure upon 
her repentant head and drinking to its bitterest 
depths the black-bitter waters of affliction. 

This incident is merely typical of the world's 
ways. While living we are sinners. Presto! The 
instant death claims us we are straightway trans- 
formed by our erstwhile traducers, strangely enough, 
into saints. 

So, her misery complete, the wretched woman 
moans groveling in prayers of expiation, uncon- 
scious of the afternoon shadows which, sinking, 
merge into the darker shades of evening until they 
meet, greet the setting sun ere its crimson disk 
sways languidly behind the tamarind tree leaving a 
fiery trail in its path whose red glory is chased, scat- 
tered by a swarm of golden stars, which, trooping 
forth, wink, peering down, radiantly smiling or sul- 
lenly malignant. 

Hush ! The slender moonbeams are creeping tim- 
idly in, accompanied by a soft, moist night-wind 
commingled with the sweet, heavy odor of rhododen- 
drons. The beams, in a silvery radiance, hover over 
all, caressing the empty cage, and kiss, linger lov- 
ingly over the forlorn figure of the woman lying face 
downward, prone upon the floor. 



II. 

"Then, Ho! Let us tread a measure, 

With the world in its swift, mad spin; 

With the free, wild sons of Pleasure — 
Drink deep to the goddess Sin." 

Clear, high, firmly-balanced, confidently-sustained, 
the exquisite bird-notes soar upward, easily main- 
taining their sweetness and purity to the end, then, 
slowly descending, fall, cease, followed by silence — 
wonderful, hushed ; a silence conveying sincerest ap- 
preciation that awed tribute inspired, erected upon 
the sacred pyre of homage and burnt at Genius' 
shrine. This breathless space remains unbroken till 
a single hand-clap from the farthest end of the room, 
which is quickly caught up and echoed by one hun- 
dred others, rudely stirs the lull. A great roar of 
applause, fresh, hearty, wholly unconstrained, en- 
sues; demonstratingly proclaiming universal ap- 
proval. 

In Alexandria the opera season is long since over 
— this is merely a straggling band, who, by some 
freakish chance, have drifted hither; and the audi- 
tors, for something better to do, attended, prepared 
for the worst, and lo ! are agreeably astonished upon 
finding this unheralded vagabond troupe of Italians 

24 



Black Butterflies 25 

as full of good singers as an honest English pudding- 
is of plums. True art reigns here tonight; accept 
the fact, and, as proof, imagine if you can a Rigo- 
letto without the customary tinsel, sans cap, sans 
bells, daring to sing this role clad in a dress suit 
of rusty black, yet saved from the ludicrous by the 
magic grace of his voice alone. 

The white-robed prima donna, a lovely, girlish 
Gilda, partly hidden by the heavy fumes of tobacco 
smoke curling upward, floating funnel-shaped along 
the ceiling, bows, graciously acknowledging the gen- 
erous plaudits, and smilingly consents to repeat her 
" Caro Nome." 

The young Englishman — he who has led the ap- 
plause — beckons to an Arabian flower girl, and toss- 
ing her a coin, selects several magnificent crimson 
roses, then signals a passing waiter ; but pauses, hesi- 
tates, suddenly remembering Paolo's rueful assertion 
regarding the fact that this sweet-voiced girl is the 
wife of the orchestra leader who had soundly cuffed 
Joseph Matheas' — the jeweler's — ears for presuming 
to send his wife a trinket that same morning. 

" Truly," muses the young fellow, in vivid recol- 
lection of the threatening manner in which the leader 
recently wielded his baton, " truly a fair warning to 
trespassers." He smiles sadly. No fear of him, 
Erlynde, arousing any man's jealousy; nevertheless 
he alters his intention, an intention prompted by 
Verdi's music which invariably sets his blood flam- 



26 Black Butterflies 

ing. The glorious rendering of " Caro Nome " has 
seriously upset him, evidently, for he vaguely re- 
sents the idea of that monkey-faced leader being the 
lawful possessor of the fair, slim, young songstress 
whose entrancing voice once more is thrilling : 

" Ca-ro no-me che il mio cor Festi pri-mo pal-pi- 
tar." 

And when Emoclew, as if divining his thoughts, 
regards him for one moment cynically, he laughs 
a trifle awkwardly, blushing a little, and sweeps the 
roses back into the girl's basket, whilst, as the cur- 
tain falls, that old, unaccountable sensation of utter 
loneliness and depression fraught with keen desola- 
tion assails him. It is only momentary, however, 
and soon passes. 

The Cafe des Pharos is crowded. The tables — 
heavily laden with bottles, glasses of rum, brandy 
and absinthe forming the most conspicuous beverage 
— are closely surrounded, despite the oppressive heat 
which is only occasionally relieved by a sharp, cool 
w T hiff of salty air borne through the wide-open win- 
dows from off the calm, moonlit bosom of the Med- 
iterranean. 

Erlynde lifts the champagne bottle at his elbow, 
and filling a glass, drains it to the last drop, then 
tilting his chair far backward, dreamily prepares to 
enjoy himself by watching the different faces — for 
the most part a queer lot. 

At present Alexandria is almost totally deserted by 



Black Butterflies 27 

her best citizens, who, to avoid the intense heat, have 
fled. Thus the town now merely contains the scum 
of nearly all the nations on the globe, every type 
faithfully represented — unkempt African coast 
traders, dealers in ivory, gum and india-rubber, na- 
tives, soldiers, sailors- — a sorry set, a miscellaneous 
mixture of all sorts under the sun, good, bad, in- 
different, the bad largely predominating. In short, 
none whose faces (barring a few, a very few excep- 
tions dotted here and there, a sparse sprinkling of 
the finer element) would indicate their characters — 
could bear close inspection, indeed if any whatever. 

There is a confused, mingled blur of many voices 
— French, Greek, German, Italian — all combined in 
this vast cosmopolitan crowd over which a jovial 
spirit of free, good-comradeship and self-abandon- 
ment prevails; yet, in justice, by these Alexandria 
cannot be judged. 

Alexandria, founded by that Macedonian, Isk- 
lander the Great, is vastly different from the Alex- 
andria of today, who, disdainfully discarding the 
mouldy garments of her ancient bereavements, has 
risen, Phoenix-like, from out the dull, gray ashes of 
antiquity and is now no longer merely the world's 
museum, but a fearless, proud young contemporary 
to those by whom she has been hitherto entirely for- 
gotten; or, if perchance indefinitely recalled as a 
passe memory, she now bursts forth from her 
chrysalis state; vigorous, charmingly radiant, thor- 



28 Black Butterflies 

oughly up to date, whilst the various nations stand 
stupidly agape, till swiftly aware of her wondrous, 
desirable beauty, throw languishing glances toward 
the East, and now, like gay young gallants, spruce 
themselves, anxiously vying with each other, fiercely 
contending to lay siege to the citadel of her heart, 
all eager to place the nuptial ring upon her finger 
and lead her to the hymeneal altar of subjection. 

But she, Egypt in experience, having the advan- 
tage over unsophisticated maidenhood, lends an in- 
different ear to the clamoring of her amorous wooers 
and remains steadfastly faithful to her dead, wedded 
memories, awaiting calmly the opportune time to be- 
stow her affections and wealth upon a judiciously- 
selected spouse — Egypt, rich in product and indus- 
tries, can now aspire to a wonderful future since 
European education is slowly refining, elevating the 
hitherto lax, dulled morals and sensibilities of its 
people whom generations have conspired to crush — 
almost extinguish — save one small spark, a frail, in- 
visible line at last commencing to be instinctively 
felt, drawing them higher, nearer to morality. 

In the steady march of Time, Egypt has sped far 
ahead, rapidly outstripping its olden self of whose 
soulless memories of a great, dead Past it is now 
wholly independent. True, there will always remain 
a weird, strong fascination about this ancient land 
connected with unfathomed antiquities and old, mys- 
terious religions, puzzling, delightful, where the 



Black Butterflies 29 

shades of Antony and Cleopatra hover and the ashes 
of the sleeping Pharaohs lie, and the Pyramids and 
Sphinx keeping everlasting watch have seemingly 
transmitted their patience to the Egyptians, placid 
predestinators who meekly fold their hands and bow 
their heads at Fate's threatenings. These wretched 
victims of Destiny and Despotism now neither resent 
nor welcome foreign supremacy, for since the rule 
of the Pharaohs the Egyptians have been mere slaves 
in their own land, uncomplainingly bearing the op- 
pressive domination of successive despotic Persians, 
Greeks, Arabs, Tartars, Turks and others. But the 
weary era of tyrannical oppression is past and the 
Egyptians are dimly realizing that the heavy chains 
of bondage have fallen forever from their limbs and 
their chequered history of weary misery is now well- 
nigh over. As yet, the Fellaheen feel it a decided 
novelty to be at last permitted to lift their heads 
amongst their fellow-mortals, for happily now they 
are under a just, wise, considerate rule, not of a 
ruthless conqueror, but a kind and thoughtful power 
which is earnestly striving for the best interest of 
that country. Foremost of the Powers in control 
is Great Britain, whose Consul-General is second 
in control to the Khedive, His Highness Abbas Hil- 
may Pasha, and, in the natural course of events, 
whilst their chief opponents, France and Turkey, 
like famished wolves will roar, showing their fangs 
in useless, impotent, jealous fury when cheated of 



30 Black Butterflies 

their expected prey, the valiant sons of Christianity 
will plant a firm heel in Egyptian soil, and their 
united flag — united in the sacred cause of Humanity 
— will float majestically above the ancient land of 
the Ptolemys, casting its cooling shadow far, far 
athwart, fertilizing the wide Lybian desert — then 
will one of the greatest problems of the world be 
solved and the Sphinx's mission accomplished; for 
that which it has been watching, waiting through 
countless centuries will come to pass, the despised 
Christian will wield the sceptre of the Pharaohs and 
sit enthroned upon the seats of the Faithful, and the 
prophecy of Philo, St. Clement and Origen, wise 
philosophers, stanch, worthy champions of Chris- 
tianity, aided by divine wisdom, be fulfilled, and the 
fanatical followers of the Prophet and Koran will 
finally bend their knee to the Christian creed. 

Erlynde glances furtively toward Emoclew, who, 
with his untasted glass of sherbet before him, his 
cigarette unlit, has not moved a muscle, save that 
brief smile, since their entrance. Erlynde, aware by 
intuition that his friend is in a misanthropic mood — 
for which silence he is happily and duly grateful, as 
Emoclew usually combines the wit and pathos of 
Dickens with Thackeray's dry, crisp cynicism, and 
as the latter seems at present to have the ascendancy 
— Erlynde knows from past experience silence while 
in that humor is far preferable to speech ; so, happily 



Black Butterflies 31 

humming "Caro Nome," he contentedly resumes his 
observations. 

Close to his right is a handsome, black-browed 
woman, clad in a startling red and yellow gown, her 
hands and arms weighted heavily with massive gold- 
en ornaments, a round blotch of rouge upon either 
dark cheek. She is conversing in a low tone con- 
fidentially, with a burly Portuguese sailor, hoops of 
gold thrust through his ears. They are both sipping 
absinthe and seemingly becoming more affectionate 
each moment. 

A short distance farther two swarthy Spaniards 
are drinking quantities of the good red wine of their 
country. Near them is seated Nathan Isaacs, pro- 
prietor of the Cafe des Pharos, a suave, pompous 
Jew, entertaining and entertained by a coterie of He- 
brew brethren, his keen eyes alert, sharp to note and 
rebuke the slightest misdemeanor or inattention on 
the part of the attendants. 

Across at another table is a quiet group of English 
tourists. At this same table leans a man of robust, 
strenuous build, asleep, his head propped on a firm, 
strong, though delicately-shaped hand, and whose 
neatness of attire stamps him as both a scholar and 
gentleman. Strange that he should sleep through 
the din, for the wine and beer imbibed is conse- 
quently commencing to have its effect ; voices are 
pitched in a higher key, laughter becomes more loud 
and frequent, eyes are beginning to flash, cheeks to 



32 Black Butterflies 

redden; they all — at least the majority — appear to 
be getting tipsy at breakneck speed, and when finally 
the dingy curtain descends on the last act, the multi- 
tude who have valiantly, out of respect and sheer ad- 
miration for the singers, striven to remain calm de- 
spite the liquor's influence, are now entirely lost to 
all control. The Spaniards are growing boisterous 
and occasionally thump the table, to the great danger 
of the glasses which bob, dance and rattle, causing 
Nathan Isaacs to wince and cast toward them fear- 
some, reproachful glances. 

" Ah, you brute ! " shrieks the black-browed 
woman, as, evidently rendered reckless by the se- 
ductive absinthe, she strikes the sailor full in the face 
with her fan of peacock feathers. 

It was a risky thing to do, for the man, with the 
swift, sullen glow of murder in his bloodshot eyes, 
swears a coarse oath and roughly catching her frail, 
jeweled wrist with his huge hand, crushes it cruelly 
till she pales beneath her paint, and, groaning with 
agony, is fain to plead for mercy. 

Erlynde watches this little incident idly, mingled 
with a certain contempt. Bah ! the fellow is already 
kissing his companion's ear and bruised arm. 

Erlynde moves uneasily, beginning to wonder 
why his friend, amid so much hubbub, remains in- 
differently mute. He yawns; now that the opera is 
over he would gladly go. The smoke is growing 



Black Butterflies 33 

thicker and chokes him, the fetid atmosphere is sick- 
eningly unbearable. 

His throat is dry, his tongue parched; he desper- 
ately yearns for the luxurious comfort of the da- 
habeah, with its cosy, richly-upholstered salon, red- 
olent with the odors of Fayoum, and wherein he 
can, in a mental vision, picture the snowy-covered 
dining-table and dishes piled high with various as- 
sortments of luscious purple and golden fruits peep- 
ing from amid their deep green leaves ; sweets from 
Damascus, juicy Nubian dates, invitingly arranged 
by the deftest of hands. He can see, too, — the mois- 
ture clinging thickly, running from its sides — an im- 
mense crystal pitcher filled to the brim with de- 
licious, perfumed wine, its wide throat choked by a 
huge, irradiant pyramid of ice, also the dainty, allur- 
ing package of cigarettes composed of Lalakia to- 
bacco which later, on deck, he and Emoclew will 
smoke, stretched full length upon their tiger skins. 

Yet Emoclew, still apparently with no notion nor 
remotest desire for departure, imperturbable as ever, 
remains immovable, maintaining his motionless, 
mummy-like attitude as calmly as the sleeping man 
opposite, and upon whom his eyes are earnestly 
riveted. 

Several newcomers, sailors, evidently, from off 
the American man-of-war just in port, now enter, 
and appropriating a recently-vacated table littered 
with half-empty coffee-cups, one of their number — a 



34 



Black Butterflies 



fine straight-limbed young fellow, a handsome speci- 
men of the American type, with his strong, clear-cut 
features, finely-curved neck and throat, splendid her- 
culean shoulders and the free, rolling steps of the 
mariner — orders beer for the crowd. 

Perhaps by accident, or in honor of the Ameri- 
cans, the musicians strike up the inspiring strains of 
" The Star Spangled Banner," at which the loyal 
tars, to a man, reverently remove their caps. 

The two Spaniards, between winks and nods, ex- 
change knowing glances; then a hiss, short and 
shrill, mingles with the music, at which sound the 
tall young fellow rears his head, glancing indig- 
nantly about for the offender. 

" In these days," says one of the English tourists, 
his voice plainly audible through the brief hush 
which sometimes falls upon an assemblage, " yes, in 
these days it seems that a republican government is 
utterly impossible. What is to become of the world 
if anarchism is allowed to go unchecked?" 

" A republic, or any other form of government, is 
impossible," answers another. " It seems we are ut- 
terly helpless. How can it be suppressed? An- 
archism breeds apace like vermin engendered by 
filth and indolence. It is the baleful result of an 
ignorant mind diseased by fanatical brooding over 
fancied injury till it becomes enthused with its own 
petty, imaginary wrongs and can safely be traced, 
laid directly at the door of sundry unprincipled poli- 



Black Butterflies 35 

ticians who, to gain their own selfish, ambitious de- 
sires, mislead, inspire the slothful masses and their 
tools' weak intellect to frenzy." 

" I advocate the Chinese method ; they, heathen 
though they be, can give us some excellent pointers 
on how to deal with such cases," interposes another. 
" I agree with the Celestials, who wisely maintain 
that a diseased mind, both in man and beast, should 
be exterminated. We shoot a mad dog; why not, 
then, destroy — though not by such violent means — a 
mad man who is a vast deal more dangerous. We 
have drugs for such purposes which will relieve 
them painlessly and mercifully. There is more 
room under than above ground for such unfortu- 
nates, whose existence is only a curse and who hang 
like a mill-stone about the taxpayer's neck." 

" You would have to analyze pretty close to dis- 
cover some of those unfortunates," dryly, " since 
more than two-thirds of the world is a trifle daft on 
some subject or another. You'd require a micro- 
scopic sieve to separate the healthy from the un- 
healthy whose craftiness and skill to conceal their 
pet weakness would dwarf to insignificance the 
traditional slyness of the fox. No, no, my friend, 
you can't dissipate nor eradicate the evil by that sys- 
tem of — " The music deadens the speaker's further 
words. 

The flower girl hovers about the American sail- 
ors, coquettishly offering them her wares and accept- 



36 Black Butterflies 

ing their jolly badinage good-naturedly. One 
chucks her under the dimpled chin ; another pats her 
sloping shoulder, whilst another — a gay old sea-dog 
who, judging by his furrowed brow and grizzled 
locks, probably has a flock of grandchildren at home 
— audaciously lifts the hem of her tattered petticoat 
to peep admiringly at her small, bare feet and trim 
brown ankles. But they buy her flowers — aye, to the 
last blossom — heaping them in a towering mass 
upon the reeking table, while she, the vender, with a 
flash of black eyes and glint of white teeth, despite 
their urgent cajolery to remain, ungratefully de- 
parts. 

The gay old tar — now the girl, their gold clutched 
tightly in her hand, has vanished — a rosebud pinned 
jauntily to the lapel of his jacket, is ogling a Titian- 
haired woman who' adroitly encourages his amorous 
glances by languidly drooping her white eyelids to 
raise them coyly, ever and anon, with an artless 
flash, to meet his own. She is beautiful, too, with a 
certain coarse beauty which she fully understands 
the value of, and well she knows when Jack 's on 
shore how freely his money flies. 

" There is a terrible abyss under that nation's 
feet," once more the Englishman's voice is heard. 
" I can imagine no deed more foul, black nor cruel 
than the recent cowardly assassination of President 
McKinley, and if — " 

Again the music interrupts ; but the young Amer- 



Black Butterflies 37 

ican, catching the last words, leaps to his feet, and, 
with an expression of amazed horror upon his 
youthful face, strides toward the speaker. 

" I beg your pardon, but will you kindly repeat 
those last words, if you please, sir? " he says. " I'm 
sure I've misunderstood you." 

Before replying the gentleman addressed regards 
him an instant in puzzled wonder. "We were dis- 
cussing the death of President McKinley — " 

" Death of President McKinley ! — " The young 
man reels, lifting his hand with a bewildered, boyish 
gesture to his forehead. 

" Ah ! Now I understand," says the other, with a 
comprehensive glance of sympathy. " You have just 
anchored. The news here is already one week old. 
Yes, the assassin's bullet has, I am sorry to say, 
robbed the world of her greatest modern statesman ; 
a second Napoleon, yet with cleaner, purer morals. 
America loved and was exceedingly proud of her late 
ruler, with just cause, too. I can't find words suit- 
able to properly express my admiration and esteem 
for William McKinley — God bless him!" 

The sailor, in mute gratitude, clasps and wrings 
the speaker's hand. Great tears have filled his 
dauntless eyes, rolling unchecked down the bronzed 
cheeks. Let them fall, dear lad, they are a credit 
and honor to your true young manhood ! 

Hail to you, William McKinley! The laurel 
wreath upon your martyred brow shall never 



38 Black Butterflies 

wither; 'twill be kept fresh and green by a stricken 
nation's tears, whilst memory's harp, whose strings 
are so firmly strung within the casement of our 
hearts, the fond breath of recollection will ever 
softly touch and its chords instantly respond, accom- 
panied by sublime music, an everlasting melody, 
sweeter by far than any ever written, which will re- 
main forever, going down with us in reverence and 
beauty, rilling our souls with divine fragrance and 
sunshine's warmth, sustaining us by your faith and 
wisdom, leading us in loving, gentlest care through 
the many labyrinths and treacherous pitfalls of Life, 
safely to that dread, unknown shore which touches 
the chill, dark waters of Eternity. 

The young sailor, after joining his companions, 
whispers a few words, at which they instantly arise 
in a body ; and, as they with sorrow-bowed heads file 
toward the door, once more, clear, distinct, that 
snake-like hiss rings out. With lightning rapidity 
the old tar wheels in time to detect the culprit, and 
no nimble young middy climbed a mast nor skipped 
across a wave-washed deck with greater alacrity 
than does this weather-beaten old chap, as, after 
taking the habitual fore and aft hitch to his belt, he 
lurches forward, landing his knotty fist square upon 
the nearest Spaniard's mouth, felling him like an 
ox. 

" Take that, yer hissing sarpent ! " he growls. 
" Lay thar, and be damned to yer ! " 




' Lay thar, and be damned to yer! " 



■Page 38. 



1 Black Butterflies. 



Black Butterflies 39 

This all happens so quietly and instantaneously it 
passes almost unnoticed. For perhaps the small 
space of a minute the red-haired girl, her blandish- 
ments gone for naught, is filled with chagrin and is 
plainly vexed to see her prey escape, who, in a jiffy, 
has now rejoined his comrades; but quickly recov- 
ering, philosophically turns her attention to other, 
though less desirable game. 

It is now growing extremely late. The Cafe des 
Pharos is gradually thinning, the crowd dispersing 
slowly, reluctantly. A waiter touches the sleeping 
man's shoulder, who is, since the Englishmen have 
departed, the sole occupant of the table. The fellow, 
as he meets with no response, naturally concluding 
the man is drunk, shakes him vigorously. 

" Fool ! " says Emoclew, lifting his forefinger and 
speaking for the first time, " Fool ! can you not see ? 
The man is dead. Yes," calmly, as several, echoing 
his last word, recoil, " yes," pulling out his watch, 
" dead exactly four hours, forty minutes and sixteen 
seconds. That clock," glancing at the huge time- 
piece above the entrance to the buffet, " is eight min- 
utes slow. This gentleman," coolly, " died in his 
sleep at the time I mentioned, exactly." 

" Jove ! " laughs Erlynde, " and so you've been 
sitting here all the evening admiring a corpse ? " 

" Yes," slowly drinking his sherbet, " yes, and — 
envying him." 

" Come, man," Erlynde pulls Emoclew's loose 



4-0 Black Butterflies 

sleeve, " come, man, for God's sake let us get out of 
here!" 

As they emerge, the refreshing night-wind greets 
their smoke-filled nostrils, and of which they grate- 
fully inhale long, deep draughts. From the minaret 
of a mosque in the neighborhood the muezzin's 
voice musically chants the call to prayer. They 
move slowly over the stone causeway of the quay, 
which is almost totally deserted save for a few 
shadowy, blue-clad Arabs, those vagabond loungers 
who love the freedom of the air and are lured hither 
by the extreme beauty of the night. The majesty of 
silence, a hushed, solemn radiance, lingers caress- 
ingly over everything, which nothing mars except 
an occasional gruff voice, a woman's shrill laughter 
or the twang of a guitar in the far distance. The 
star-flecked waters move sullenly; past the break- 
waters tiny shafts of silvery foam tipped with gold 
curl, spread and flash upon the rollers. Mechan- 
ically the two men seat themselves upon the parapet 
whilst the briny air sweeps their feverish cheeks. 

Rocking at anchor are several ships and vessels, 
amongst them the Khedival mail-boat and stately 
American man-of-war. Its masts and spars sharply 
silhouetted against the background of clear, moonlit 
sky, the black-lined P. & O. looms plainly. A couple 
of Cook & Sons' barges tug vainly at their moor- 
ings, and a few other vessels from whose masts the 



Black Butterflies 41 

red flag stamped with a white star and crescent 
floats lazily. 

In silence they arise, turning from the peaceful 
grandeur, and bend their steps toward the Place 
Mahomet Ali. Emoclew, still in that perverse, taci- 
turn mood, has seemingly no immediate intention of 
boarding the dahabeah, which Erlynde mentally lays 
'to "downright cussedness." They pause beneath 
the dark shadow of the huge Khedive statue to light 
their cigarettes. And now, with swift force the 
thought suddenly strikes Erlynde : By what mys- 
terious, occult powers did Emoclew so positively af- 
firm his knowledge, and, more wonderful still, how 
could he possibly gauge the precise time — to the 
second — as he averred, that the man in the cafe ex- 
pired? And yet another strange coincidence: not 
one person present thought to inquire. Emoclew, 
he knew, had lived so close to nature, and, the in- 
herent purity of his soul adhering to his early train- 
ing, with later knowledge imbibed, he had thus ac- 
quired a supernatural gift, and the mysterious laws 
of Nature were, to a certain extent, under his 
control. 

Emoclew, thoughtfully puffing the smoke from his 
lips, is placidly gazing skyward. Erlynde clears his 
throat preparatory to asking the question, essays to 
speak; but for some peculiar reason his tongue 
falters and lays powerless across his teeth. He 
starts violently. Emoclew is speaking. 



42 Black Butterflies 

_ _ _ — — 

" Ah ! my friend, there are secrets beyond the in- 
visible which that dead man in his sleep has 
fathomed. He has dared lift the curtain which sep- 
arates the known from the unknown; his indomi- 
table will has gained the mastery. In defiance he has 
read the letters which form the forbidden word. At 
the same time, that secret has conquered him. Yes," 
discarding his half-smoked cigarette — " yes, how 
often are restless souls set free — no, not all; some 
human bodies don't possess a soul — untrammeled by 
the cumbersome body, which, when quiescent, fly, 
veer about in queer places not meet for us to go. 
Thus are we oftentimes, by some mystic ruse, clev- 
erly and cunningly arranged, — which correctly ac- 
cords for the nonce with our dreams — peremptorily 
ordered back; or, if it so happens that we have al- 
ready slipped through that magic space beyond re- 
call, and successfully solved Life's tantalizing prob- 
lem (a task given to us from earliest childhood to 
unravel, which generally keeps us busy our allotted 
span) then, presto! we suddenly succumb to some 
accommodating ailment — heart failure commonly 
answers the needed purpose — for, believe me, the 
only key to that unknown riddle is death. And yet," 
musingly, " the perplexing enigma must be simplic- 
ity itself; as simple, for instance," waving his slen- 
der hand desertward, " as some of those mammoth 
constructions of rock and stone yonder." 

" Heine, the German poet, declared every age a 



Black Butterflies 43 

sphinx which immediately sank into earth the mo- 
ment its riddle was solved," answers Erlynde, " and 
I'm inclined to his belief, since before the days of 
Abraham those great, ugly masses of rock have been 
standing useless, whilst sages, wiseacres, Egypt- 
ologists, pondered, argued, toiled, unceasingly 
racked their poor brains for ages to discover the 
reason, method and contrivance the Ancients em- 
ployed in moving those colossal stones hither. What 
was their object? It is a pity the Rosetta stone dis- 
covered by M. Boussard in 1799 does not mention, 
nor any of the speaking stones divulge the secret; 
neither will the mighty Pharaohs awaken from their 
marble sleep to proclaim it." 

" Bah ! The puzzling secret lies in a nutshell," 
quoths Emoclew, " and is, forsooth ! merely the lost 
art of stone manufacture, which secret of their en- 
durance has unfortunately perished with the An- 
cients, to be accidentally discovered, as all such se- 
crets are, since scientific researches inform us that 
everything new under the sun is only a repetition of 
what has gone before, perchance tomorrow or cen- 
turies hereafter." 

" Bosh ! " scoffs Erlynde. " Science will explode 
the fallacy and impracticability of that absurd fancy. 
Why, man, it can't hold water ; it is full of the holes 
of improbability. Your idea, though decidedly orig- 
inal, I confess, is a trifle too farfetched to be plaus- 
ible. The immense excavations plainly show from 



44 Black Butterflies 

whence those gigantic rocks were hewn; which 
proves beyond all doubt the supernatural, inexplic- 
able achievements of those people. Your advanced 
doctrine — pardon me, dear chap — is utterly, wholly 
illogical." 

" On the contrary," with provoking coolness, " it 
is altogether logical. Science and reason teach, 
point unerringly, conclusively to that fact, prepos- 
terous as it may at first seem. If you remember, I 
did not include all the works; I said some. The ma- 
jority, I readily admit, were beyond question carved 
from the solid whole. There are, however, several 
exceptions which I firmly believe, maintain, were 
never brought hence, at least not in bulk, but by 
bucketfuls, and fashioned where they stand; com- 
posed chiefly of the sand of the desert (sand as- 
suredly is the main ingredient) and were then, 
whilst in a yielding, plastic state, as a sculptor 
moulds his clay, shaped to their present form which 
the unobstructed, scorching wind and torrid sun 
through countless ages have conspired to harden, 
preserve. Briefly, it is nothing more nor less 
than manufactured granite which the Egyptians 
understood the secret of. Though this secret was 
not confined to them alone; the Pompeiians, if his- 
tory can be accredited, evidently shared it. Does 
not history record the astounding fact concerning a 
solid block of granite, unearthed in Pompeii, within 
which, when split open, was discovered embedded a 



Black Butterflies 45 

living toad? Please explain that phenomenon by 
any other theory than that which I offer — if you 
can." 

" A fake yarn," promptly ; " the mere fact of the 
toad being alive stamps it on its face as untrue." 

" Oh, you skeptic ! Aren't you aware that toads 
are universally conceded to lay dormant for ages? ' ! 

" Well, granted that your theory is correct, incred- 
ulous as it seems, why then were those works not 
all manufactured by the same easy process instead of 
wasting time by such stupendous labor ? " queries 
Erlynde, doubtfully. 

" Ah ! That's the secret proper. Those sly old 
Ancients most certainly had a reason — a deep one — 
which was not merely to blazon their handicraft or 
perplex their successors through everlasting time. 
No; There was an object — one only. Who knows? 
Perhaps the bodies of the manufactured sphinx 
serve a mighty purpose. Where," in answer to Er- 
lynde's look of inquiry, " where have the riches of 
Egypt vanished? It is true that when the invading 
Emperor Augustus cruelly seized Antony and Cleo- 
patra's wretched children to drag in triumph at his 
chariot wheels through the hooting streets of Rome, 
he also despoiled, carted off from Alexandria an im- 
mense amount of movable treasure ; precious metals, 
priceless works of art, rare ornaments of all sorts, 
including the double crown of Egypt. Yet that is 
naught in comparison to what remained. Where is 



46 Black Butterflies 



the ore from the mines — gold, copper, turquoise? 
Where are the vast treasures which Solomon 
brought hither from India? Where, through what 
mysterious channels, has the almost fabulous wealth 
of Egypt, once the world's magnificent center, van- 
ished? Where? " with a careless laugh and shoulder 
shrug. "Ah, the Egyptians were clever strategists. 
That chiseled sphinx is a blind to hoodwink, 
direct suspicion from the main cause. Methinks, re- 
posing safe, snug within the spacious bowels of 
that selfsame sphinx untold riches, precious gems 
are stored, destined, at all hazards, for their beloved 
gods." 

" Zounds! " ejaculated Erlynde. " Once set that 
notion afloat, and the country will swarm with 
hordes equipped with pick-axes and dynamite." 

" No danger," dryly, " superstition stalks as ram- 
pant today as in olden times, and as frequently runs 
amuck with reason. Show me the knave who 
would, despite his direst needs or wishes, dare defile 
those grim, defiant works. Not one. Those crafty, 
sly old Ancients understood human nature thor- 
oughly, and from their graves defy, baffle us, since 
superstition rules the world. No, those hideous 
carved monstrosities will guard their charge, faith- 
fully in the future as in the past. Man's hand is not 
destined to destroy them. Their vigil is relentless 
as Fate." 



Ill 

Leon. 

You, my lords, 
Look on her, mark her well; be but about to say, 
She is a goodly lady, and the justice of your hearts will hereto 

add, 
'Tis pity she's not honest, honorable. 

— Winter's Tale. 

" Art ! Ha, ha ! So you call him an artist who 
paints his cupids with the limbs of a ballet dancer, 
his goddesses with the coarse features and buxom 
forms of dairy maids ? " 

" I admit his models are not always judiciously 
selected; yet even you, Bevin, can't deny for 
originality, strength and daring, the true genius of 
his recent Phryne." 

" Bosh ! my dear Val. A beastly caricature ; in- 
stead of the sensual, voluptuous grace with which 
these mythical subjects should be treated, he resorts 
to vulgarism and — " 

" You draw too fine a line. By all accounts Jove 
was a gay old dog, and if you haven't quite forgot- 
ten your early mythological studies, our ancient gods 
and goddesses were a trifle vulgar, and horribly im- 
moral, to boot." 

" We can excuse immorality; vulgarity, never." 

47 



48 Black Butterflies 

" Hang it ! You are slightly illogical. Aren't 
they identical ? " 

" No," shortly. " No; widely different. Immor- 
ality, when clothed by refinement, can be amusing, 
which is, you must allow, a virtue; whilst nothing 
could avail by attempting to hide the latter's naked 
ugliness. For instance, when Mrs. Jenkins, the 
blacksmith's wife, bolts with Simkins the butcher, 
her horrified patrician sisters cover their blushing 
faces, crying, "Shame! " But when the Duchess of 
Snobington elopes with the Duke of Riffraff — 
which happens very seldom — my lady is a clever 
strategist and generally contrives to clutch her coro- 
net with one hand and clasp her lover with t'other, 
and if either must be renounced it will invariably be 
the latter. Yet, if so she chooses to hook it, we con- 
sider it chic, and vow it serves her brute of a hus- 
band right, (whose only fault, poor devil, was in 
refusing to pay his wife's gambling debts) and, con- 
doning her Grace's little eccentricities, utterly con- 
demn the other woman who cheerfully gives up all, 
everything, for the man she loves; which is not 
much, certainly, considering the fact that her burly 
spouse repeatedly beat her black and blue besides 
starving her five days out of the seven. For truth 
and honesty, give me the bourgeoisie." 

" You have a deucedly queer way of twisting 
things around to suit your own fancy and away 
from Dacre's picture. Sinclair tells me he is at work 



Black Butterflies 49 

upon something else, and that Mrs. Demaris is the 
model — Jove! as I live, there she is now, or I'm a 
Dutchman ! " 

"Who?" 

" The Demaris." 

"Eh? Where?" eagerly. 

" In the third carriage, with Trixie Fairfax." 

Mrs. Fairfax, exquisitely attired in the most 
modish of gowns, sweeping past behind a splendid 
pair of bays, smiles, bowing graciously upon the 
two young men who return the salute nonchalantly ; 
but her companion, reclining indolently against the 
cushions, scarcely designs to bend her queenly head. 

" So ! " drawing a long breath, " that's the De- 
maris? She's a stunner beyond dispute; truly a 
worthy model for Venus or Helen and all the other 
enchantresses thrown in. But there's a queer look 
about her — something bizarre, though decidedly be- 
witching. God! what hair; what eyes! I confess 
she dazzles my sight like the hot rays of the sun." 

" She is all glow and glitter," answers Valentine 
Hume, touching a match to a cigarette. "Of all the 
women I have ever met in any land, Lalage Demaris 
is, by far, the fairest." 

" The Fairfax, also, looks blooming." 

" As a weed, beside the other. Bah ! How I 
abominate that woman ! " She is a fair type of your 
Lady Snobington." 



£o Black Butterflies 

" Teddy Stryker told me Trixie's husband died 
almost a pauper." 

" Which is true, but Trixie, faithful to her catlike 
nature, has always landed on her feet. Her half- 
brother, a queer, studious sort of chap, horribly 
deformed, fell heir to an immense estate, and, in- 
stead of enjoying himself at home as any sensible 
human creature should, wanders off to study a lot of 
rubbishing hieroglyphics and papyri of Egypt, leav- 
ing Trixie and Dacre in full possession. I met him 
in Palestine, accompanied by a freakish-looking in- 
dividual who claimed to be a Brahmin. They 
seemed quite chummy, and both spoke of coming to 
England." 

" Speaking of Trixie," drawls Bevin, " for bare- 
faced effrontery she takes the palm. Ton my word, 
it was the rummiest sight I ever witnessed when she 
publicly cut Mrs. Trent at a big fancy ball in Simla 
two years ago." 

Hume laughs incredulously. 

" An actual fact, by Jove ! And everyone present 
who wasn't an utter idiot knew the Fairfax was 
Captain Trent's chere amie at the time, and that her 
bills were paid by him. Droll, eh ? " 

" Well, you know, everything is proper when un- 
der the rose," philosophically; " the only sin is in 
being caught." 

"True, though I always admired Dora Trent im- 
mensely, and the snub angered me." 



Black Butterflies 51 

" Mrs. Trent is certainly a charming woman, and 
aside from Love's follies is, I'm sure, a noble, gen- 
erous character." 

" You are correct. There is many a harlot a vir- 
gin at heart; many a virgin a harlot." 

" Right. But do you remember the old maxim 
regarding virtue and its reward ? " 

" A false motto. Look at Trixie Fairfax, for in- 
stance. She has sailed closer — twenty times closer 
— to the wind than any woman of my acquaintance, 
and always went scot-free; though that little affair 
with Dexter of the Guards came dangerously near 
pulling her from off her matrimonial pedestal." 

" Poor old matrimony ! Like money, what a vast 
multitude of sins it hides; and, like debt, easily as- 
sumed, yet the very devil at extraction — " the ex- 
istence of some certain unpleasant Jews swiftly 
paramount — "I remember the occurrence; it raised 
the deuce of a rumpus at the time. Old Hoggy 
Fairfax threatened her with divorce, and she luck- 
ily owes her escape to his sudden illness and subse- 
quent death. That Dexter business frightened her 
into remaining loverless ever since." 

" Loverless ! Pooh ! Rumor whispers she has at 
last consoled herself with Dick Trevor — don't know 
him, eh? Well, you'll meet him at Castlewalls; of 
course you're going down ? " 

" Yes ; wouldn't miss the chance of knocking over 
a few pheasants for the world. And you ? " 



52 Black Butterflies 

" My uncle's confounded illness left me no al- 
ternative but to refuse." Bevins shakes his head 
gloomily. " Just my usual luck." 

" I hear Dacre has got a first rate party together, 
including Miss Padleford, Kath Brabazon — who is 
no end of fun — and that delightfully vagabondish 
Nettleton, who is such a cool hand at cutting the 
cards, and can rattle the dice with the best of them." 

" And, of course," a trifle spitefully, to relieve his 
injured feelings — " and, of course, the lovely De- 
maris; but Vivian declares she is decidedly epris 
with Dacre." 

" Never say die ! " This little dart, tipped with 
jealousy's venom, has as much effect on Val as 
water upon the proverbial duck's back. He is 
young, and to him everything in life appears 
couleur de rose. "Never say die," laughs he mock- 
ingly; "without your charming self to contend 
against, to the dickens with Dacre. I'll have a fair 
field and no favor." 

And he certainly does look handsome — danger- 
ously so — standing tall, straight, displaying his ex- 
cellent military training in every curve and muscle. 
Bevin, slight, dark, insignificant, is at a decided dis- 
advantage beside him — so young, strong and bold; 
assailed by no dread nor fear of any rival. 

A carriage suddenly stops, while the sole occu- 
pant, a slender, stately lady, heavily veiled, utters an 
exclamation — "At last !" 



Black Butterflies 53 

The two young - men start, then bow courteously, 
almost reverently, before her, a striking difference 
in this greeting to the cool indifference which they 
bestowed upon Mrs. Fairfax a few minutes previous. 

" At last! " She stretches out her slim hand and 
lays it cordially in Val's palm, whose strong, brown 
fingers close warmly about it. "Oh, you dear old 
boy, how glad I am to see you !" 

" Rosamond " — there is something singularly soft 
and tender in his manner — "Rosamond — you ! The 
only woman in the world I most wished to see." 

" Thank you, dear." The voice is cooing, sweet 
and low ; then, changing to a brisk peremptory note 
of command, " Jump in ; I'm going to take you both 
home to drink a cup of tea with me." Which man- 
date Val Hume accepts with alacrity, but Bevin 
lamely demurs. 

" Thanks, awfully, Mrs. Arbuthnot, but I really 
can't, you know. I would, with pleasure, but — " 

" He's afraid he'll be de trop" laughs Val. 

" Nonsense," answers the sweet voice. " Come," 
coaxingly. " Yes, yes, I know you dread the ordeal 
of sipping sloppy tea and nibbling sponge cake like a 
poor little mouse; but I have some choice old Bur- 
gundy which I keep for special occasions." 

" That settles it," answers Bevin, jumping into the 
brougham, the door of which the footman still holds 
invitingly open. And the high-mettled horses soon 
whirl carriage and occupants out of sight. 



IV 

"Had Gesar known but Cleopatra's kiss, 
Rome had been free, the world had not been his." 

" Fie, sir ! A woman's ear is a waste-paper basket 
into which men cast their worthless scraps of 
thought." 

The flower-laden table is a bewildering mass of 
beauty, exotic fruits and blossoms. Great, wide- 
throated crystal jars, choked with immense sprays 
of stephanotis, heliotrope and honeysuckle fling 
athwart their combined fragrance, heavily oppres- 
sive, slightly nauseating. Overhead the candelabra, 
shaded by gaily-colored globes, swing, brilliantly 
ablaze, throwing a freakish glow across the diners, 
queerly detracting from and distorting the charms 
of some, anon, slyly stealing through the shades and 
shadows to bestow a false glitter upon those less 
favored ; for the nonce kindly transforming Priscilla 
Stryker's long nose into a saucy retrousse and mer- 
cifully obliterating the cruel letters branded upon 
sweet Rosamond Arbuthnot's white forehead. 

Erlynde's cellars boast the purest stock in the 
county, and the ancient Port and famous old Bor- 
deaux being both excellent and plentiful, the latter 

54 



Black Butterflies 55 

virtue causes the guests to talk animatedly on every 
available subject — politics, science, religion — wax- 
ing witty, eloquent, foolish, just as the mood or 
wine affects them. For instance, Roger Barnaby, 
the erstwhile coldly conservative financier, is verg- 
ing on tears, and in maudlin tones (interrupted by 
numerous sobs and hiccoughs) vainly strives to 
recite a lackadaisical poem — of his own composition 
— to Mistress Joan Nettleton, who listens pensively. 
Joan 's desperate; her purse is almost flattened 
through a sure tip from the scoundrel, Jim Parks, 
who basely persuaded her into putting down twenty 
monkeys to one on John Gilpin. While Barnaby 
grunts and stutters she is secretly weighing the 
chance and advisability of borrowing a hundred or 
so from him. 

Owen Chatwin, the timid young doctor, is dis- 
coursing in a pompous, learned manner of matters 
pertaining to the Transvaal war. Teddy Stryker, a 
much hen-pecked spouse, is making open, desperate 
love, directly under his wife's sharp nose, to pretty 
Peggie Padelford whose slim, ringed fingers he 
holds tightly jailed, which hand being the right, 
forsooth, she is compelled to use her fork with the 
left. At the lower end of the table Valentine Hume 
is flirting outrageously with saucy Kath Brabazon, 
upon whose bare, white arm, regardless of her mock 
protests, he has, unobserved, pressed a dozen hot 
kisses. 



56 Black Butterflies 

Trixie Fairfax, listening to the story Trevor re- 
lates, is laughing boisterously — the newest, 
naughtiest story which he has just brought over 
from Paris. Trixie's small, piquant face is flushed 
from brow to chin, even spreading with a roseate 
hue to her dimpled shoulders, from which her ex- 
tremely decollete gown has a fond tendency of slip- 
ping, but which long practice has taught the knack 
to catch and adjust with a marvelous, dexterous 
twist in the nick of time. As the story progresses, 
however, so absorbed is she as to have entirely for- 
gotten the customary hitch. As a result, ere 
Trevor's yarn is finished, Trixie's gown has slid al- 
most beyond decorum's line. 

Altogether it is a most delightful dinner, border- 
ing close upon the Bohemian, whilst the massive 
sideboard, heaped with glasses and bottles — empty, 
of course — lends quite a Bacchanalian aspect to the 
scene. The conversation becomes a muttering jum- 
ble, until suddenly, above the din, a high, clear voice 
cuts the air. 

" Fie, sir ! A woman's ear is a waste-paper basket 
into which men cast their worthless scraps of 
thought." 

Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, sitting directly opposite, 
ceases to eat, and stares with elevated brows at the 
speaker; then turning to Vivian Hyde remarks, "A 
libel against your sex, dear boy. I wonder where 
she got that speech" — spitefully — "it can't be her 



Black Butterflies 57 

own; of that I'm certain. She has evidently heard 
it before, or else stolen it out of some trashy novel — 
don't you think?" 

The interrogated one, whose mouth at this mo- 
ment happens to be rilled to its utmost capacity with 
pates a la crime — of which dainty he is inordinately 
fond — grunts, without vouchsafing any answer. 

Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, being somewhat literarily 
inclined, and credited with the authorship of divers 
works, either as yet unfinished, unpublished, or 
— unaccepted — it matters little — therefore natur- 
ally resents any original remark, more especially 
when made by one of her own sex — it savors too 
strongly of poaching on her manor, to whose ex- 
clusive preserves she claims full right and title. Or, 
possibly, the allusion to waste-paper baskets is a sore 
topic, as it is to numerous others whose literary effu- 
sions frequently find a final resting place therein. 

" Now, that's positively cruel," drawls a well-mod- 
ulated voice in injured tones. " You willfully mis- 
construe an honest compliment into shallow flattery. 
A waste-paper basket — mon Dieu! I call that 
downright shabby." With quick, happy intonation, 
" say, rather, a dearly-cherished casket into which we 
carefully, reverently, place our most rare and pre- 
cious jewels ; or, more truthfully speaking, a sacred 
edifice, to assail whose white citadels of purity by an 
untruth, or contaminate with words so vile and base 
as flattery, would be sacrilegious, and the knave 



58 Black Butterflies 

guilty of such a crime should be instantly annihi- 
lated." 

" Ho, Julian," cries Kath Brabazon, selecting and 
snapping from its stem a half-blown Duchess rose 
from among those which are thickly banked upon 
the table, and with swift, unerring aim pelting him 
in the mouth with it. " Ho, Julian, thou false phil- 
osopher, prepare for death, then; thy end is near." 

He catches the flower, holds it to his heart for a 
moment, then flattens it with a kiss. An instant 
later it lies a bruised, broken thing beneath his care- 
less heel, while he resumes argument with his com- 
panion, a beautiful creature, with great, dark, starry, 
Eastern eyes; whose small, queenly head is proudly 
poised upon a slim, fair throat, whilst under the 
smooth, white, satiny skin the rich blood forever 
plays and quivers. 

" A charming simile, for which your former sins 
are freely pardoned." She lifts the brimming wine- 
glass in her strong, firm hand, clinking it lightly 
against his own whose audacious glances cause the 
swift, hot color to drench brow and throat. She 
laughs in slight confusion ; and when Lalage laughs 
or smiles she discloses two rows of pearls which 
would surely put to shame and mockery the snowy 
pebbles which strew and dot the Lido's white shore. 
" We mortals," she continues, " delight in throwing 
the dust of delusion into one another's faces." 



Black Butterflies 59 

" You are satirical " — Dacre is slightly piqued. 
" Sarcasm and wit are men's weapons." 

" Let woman be content with flattery," cries Kath 
Brabazon, mockingly. 

" And beauty," answers Dacre. 

" Do you consider her pretty ? " queries Mrs. 
Lighton-Stryker, again appealing to the consumer 
of cream patties. 

" Eh — er — yes, extremely beautiful." Having 
finished the patties he is now busily engaged with a 
great bunch of purple hot-house grapes. 

" Nonsense, Vivian ! How can you possibly ad- 
mire such a massive creature?"' — the lady being 
very diminutively proportioned herself, sneers at 
her more fortunate sisters. " For my part I prefer 
Trixie Fairfax. Mrs. Demaris is so — so — pon- 
derous." 

" All a matter of taste," quoth he, valiantly attack- 
ing an immense pear. " Mrs. Demaris is clever, too, 
there's no denying; but then" — conciliatory — "the 
society of a clever woman is like a dental operation, 
painful, but beneficial." Mrs. Stryker winces ; Viv- 
ian is evidently not endowed with diplomacy — " yet 
nature has been very generous to Mrs. Demaris, I'll 
allow." 

" Too extremely generous," sneers she. " I see no 
beauty in so much flesh and bone." 

" ' A rag and a bone and a hank of hair/ " hums 



60 Black Butterflies 

Vivian, cutting the ripe, golden rind in an unbroken 
ringlet from the mellow pear. 

" That's it " — quickly — " her hair ; it is such a vir- 
tueless shade of red, I wonder if " — 

But now the hostess gives the signal, and with 
preparatory moving, creaking of chairs, the ladies 
arise to leave the gentlemen to their wine and wal- 
nuts. 

Lalage Demaris, standing at her full, magnificent 
height, dwarfs all the other women present. She is 
last in line to the drawing-room, and as she drags 
and trails her immense length of orange-hued 
draperies thither, she is followed by eleven pairs of 
eyes; ten are filled with genuine admiration, but 
lurking in the baleful depths of the eleventh is a 
sullen glare of deadliest hatred; and this last pair 
are not — human ; they are the eyes of Erlynde's dog 
Nero. 

After closing the door upon the ladies, Dacre re- 
sumes his seat, and selecting a choice Havana, sits 
staring vacantly before him, his left hand fidgeting 
with a mass of loose rose petals which have fallen 
from their stems to lie scattered upon the table 
cover. 

"Splendid-looking woman, isn't she?" exclaims 
Patrick Invorarity, whose brain is slightly befud- 
dled. " I'll wager she has a history, too ; those out 
of the ordinary looking people nearly always do." 

" No need to inquire to whom you refer." Val- 



Black Butterflies 61 

entine Hume lights a Turkish cigarette, watching 
the smoke sail in tiny, curled rings to the ceiling, 
casts a side glance toward the slender, athletic 
young giant whose more than handsome face is 
overcast for the nonce as his fingers still crumple 
and crush the rose leaves. " If so, Dacre should be 
the man to enlighten you, considering the fact that 
he has out-distanced us all with the lovely widow." 

" A widow ? Imagine my ecstasy ! " 

" An Irishman loves a widow." 

" Pooh ! " interposes Trevor. " Artful dodgers, 
widows; don't suit me — alwavs steer clear of them. 
Look what Dickens says." 

" I notice you always manage to give them a wide 
berth," jeers Grosvenor, maliciously, remembering 
his late devotion to Mrs. Fairfax during dinner." 

" Yes, by Jove ! " answers Hume, flipping the ash 
from his cigarette. " Yes, here he is on the eve of 
marriage and live happy ever afterwards, as the 
story books say, and still carrying on a most desper- 
ate flirtation with Mrs. Demaris." 

Dacre winces ; he knows he is being roasted. With 
one sweep of his hand he brushes the rose leaves in a 
scattered shower from the table, then impatiently 
pushes the short, crisp hair from off his forehead. 

" And she certainly seems to receive it well 
enough." 

" That's a fact," laughs another." 

" The Saints forgive me, then ! " sniffles Invorar- 



62 Black Butterflies 

ity, in mock grief, taking a long pull at the seltzer. 
" The saints forgive me, I'm going straight to my 
room to commit suicide. Please " — tearfully — 
" please write on my headstone, ' Here lies a victim 
of unrequited passion/ " 

" Do nothing rash ; wait till morning. Time — " 
consolingly — " is the most skillful physician. He 
heals all ills, no matter how serious," says Barnaby. 

" Let him go," cries Valentine Hume, grandilo- 
quently. " Passion is the steed of the universe ; Am- 
bition, the spur; Life, the rider; Death, the goal. 
Let him go. Farewell, Invorarity, your request 
shall be sacredly attended to — I have spoken." 

" I warned Dacre how it would be, but he was ob- 
durate," groans Barnaby. 

" Yes," muses Vivian, absently toying with an 
iced mango. " I foresee his ruination." 

" He will get his conge" replies Chatwin, sotto 
voce. 

" And serve him right, too, if he wants to make an 
ass of himself," jeers Trevor. 

"What are you fellows driving at?" laughs 
Dacre, good naturedly, lifting a glass of brandy to 
his lips and draining it neatly at one gulp. But still 
the jolly badinage goes on. 

" I wonder how his affianced would like it if she 
should hear of this sort of thing," sighs Desmond. 

" It is clearly some one's duty to warn her," 
chimes Teddy Stryker. " Still, it would be such a 



Black Butterflies 63 

shame to interrupt anything so placid and tranquil." 

" Yes, that's the deuce of it," says Hume, " one 
hasn't the heart to interfere with an affair so pure 
and pastoral, don't you know." 

" Perhaps he believes in that beautiful old motto, 
' The world well lost for love,' " echoes Chatwin. 

" Possibly," interjects Invorarity, piously, " and 
we must strive to reform men's hearts before at- 
tempting to reform their actions." 

Thus they joke and scoff till Maggs, the butler, in 
stentorian tones announces coffee in the drawing- 
room, and who, after the men file out (some de- 
cidedly unsteady in their gait) with many grunts, 
protests and aspersions, summons his corps of as- 
sistants, and out of the present chaos order is soon 
restored. Not so, however, the butler's temper, as, 
still complaining, he joins his colleagues below. 

" Scandalous — scandalous ! " he sputters. " It is 
just twenty years, come this Michaelmas, since I 
first stepped foot in Castlewalls, and — " pausing to 
partake generously of the spicy ragout which Mrs. 
Burton, the plump housekeeper, has for several sec- 
onds been pushing toward him, " twenty years, and 
never before have my eyes witnessed such outland- 
ish, outrageous, disgraceful — " 

"Disgraceful?" 

" You will please not interrupt me, Ma'am " — the 
housekeeper's eyes drop demurely at the reproof — 
" However, I repeat, disgraceful — yes, disgraceful 



64 Black Butterflies 

actions of the whole tribe ; especially that red-headed 
foreign woman, who seems to have set all the men 
folk stark staring mad with her infernal, barbaric 
clothes and heathenish gewgaws — " 

" Ha, ha ! " A suppressed titter from a couple of 
be-capped, be-ribboned maids, which luckily goes 
unheard. 

" I have had to take out the seventy-fifth bottle of 
Moselle this week, and here it is only Monday. 
Ah," sorrowfully, "if old Sir Vincent could only see 
that precious stuff, which he prized and treasured as 
the apple of his eye, a-running wastefully down their 
greedy gullets, he would send them to the right- 
about with a flea in their ear, in double-quick time. 
Every blessed bottle of that precious stuff, as I brush 
the cobwebs from, brings the tears to my eyes, and 
— " the girls giggle more audibly, " Oh, yes, you 
jades may laugh, but the sooner young master re- 
turns, the better; I'm sick and tired of such tom- 
foolery." 

" Law, Mr. Maggs," chirrups one of the maids, 
pertly, " you are sweet on Mrs. Demaris' red hair, 
yourself; you know you are." 

A shout of laughter follows this sally, whilst 
Maggs sits in speechless rage. 

" Lawks, what a rum idea ! " simpers the jealous 
housekeeper. 

" Yes," continues the girl, dipping him a saucy 






Black Butterflies 65 

courtesy, " I caught you only this morning a-casting 
sheep's eyes up at her window." 

" You are an ill-bred hussy ! " shouts the guilty 
butler. 

Amidst the general consternation which follows, 
fortunately a bell rings, and the maid darts quickly 
in answer. The housekeeper pushes another tempt- 
ing dish solicitously forward, which the butler eyes 
pensively. 

" Taste it," coaxingly. " Just a morsel. Mr. 
Maggs — do ! " 

Mr. Maggs deliberates, regarding it askance for 
an instant, then with a little more persuasion reck- 
lessly plunges his spoon into the savory mess before 
him. 

Above, the merry guests still hold free, wild rev- 
elry, which penetrates every nook and corner of 
Castlewalls, and floating through the wide-open 
windows, passes far out, commingles with the dis- 
tant darkness. 

And thus they break his bread and drink his wine, 
with never a thought nor care for him who gives 
with lavish hand, save possibly one fleeting moment, 
when snugly ensconced beneath his roof, amidst 
silken covers and downy pillows, they are for one 
brief instant — by the wind or rain dashing against 
the casement — perchance awakened, to lazily won- 
der why the sole possessor of such wealth and lux- 
urious splendor values it so lightly that he unwit- 



66 Black Butterflies 

tingly wanders self-exiled, leaving all in control of 
those whose hands plunder him ruthlessly — and 
with far less scrupulosity than the paid hirelings — 
then yawn, turn, and stretching their warm, white 
limbs, slumber and dream again. 






V 

" Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the storm, 
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form." 

" There is truth in all philosophy." 

" And yet," bitterly, " where is the philosophism 
that can prevent us from becoming broken on the 
wheel of the world before the noon of life is passed 
— sometimes, alas, long before 'tis reached? You 
say, my friend, that there is truth in all philosophy, 
but from a logical standpoint I maintain that all 
truth is not any one of them." 

Emoclew, standing motionless, an arrow-straight 
and shrouded figure, with arms folded in their habit- 
ual manner closely upon his breast, shrugs his shoul- 
ders slightly without replying. He might be mis- 
taken for an image of stone. Remarkably tall, 
majestic, against the space of the setting sun his 
profile plainly outlined, cameo-like, distinct, as if 
carved in marble, a sensitive, womanish profile, with 
thin, quivering nostrils, firm-pointed chin twisting 
somewhat upward, a small head, entirely hidden 
within a heavy white cowl, his manner and appear- 
ance a combination of servility and hauteur. 

" When the sons of freedom braving, 
Rome's imperial standards flew," 

67 



68 Black Butterflies 

mutters Erlynde, leaning idly against the crumbling 
wall. " One hour have we lingered here ; one hour 
have I listened to the beat and crash of war. See, 
Emoclew ! Hither comes, like a radiant god, the 
mighty, well-loved Coilglch, imperiously rolling his 
dazzling car, rushing defiantly through the immense, 
deep ranks of the Romans But ah — (shaking him- 
self as if awakening from sleep) they vanish, and 
this tottering wall is the end. Behold ! Their once 
mighty ramparts now serve no greater need than to 
breed and shelter these frivolous weeds " — reaching 
forth and dragging from their roots a cluster of 
deep, dark purple blossoms which cling to the wall, 
swaying, tossing with every breeze — " See the frail, 
pretty things! only fit to adorn some fair, shallow 
woman's hair or breast. Thus doth all man's great 
works and actions fail, ending in naught. A fig for 
philosophy and knowledge, the pursuit of which 
merely wears holes in our intellect." 

" Yet, oh, Emoclew ! what a glorious thing Life's 
morning is for a fine, straight fellow " — catching 
his breath, he waves his long arms with a self- 
deprecatory gesture — " ah, a fine, straight fellow, 
strong of limb, brave of heart, to whom the world 
is a vast arena, when, in the insolence of youth and 
strength he steps forth, stripped like a gladiator! 
How proudly our — his — eyes indifferently rove 
around the immense amphitheatre — fierce, eager, 
confident of victory. 



Black Butterflies 69 

" Until perchance amongst the crowded gallery, 
we — he — espies one who causes his heart and pulse 
to throb and beat more rapidly ; whilst she, reclining 
amidst silks and laces, blushingly returns our ardent 
gaze with a coy, sweet smile of encouragement from 
behind her jeweled fan; or, as a gage, flings us a 
flower or glove yet warm from her soft white hand, 
causing us to suddenly realize how wondrous a 
blessing is life's strength and love. Filled with ex- 
hilarating madness we rush furiously forth; parry, 
struggle. Ho ! our opponent is down, our foot upon 
his breast! How long and fierce the plaudits ring! 
Inspired by such a storm of approval we rush fran- 
tically forth to meet another victim. Once more vic- 
torious! Again and again we win, until, in turn, 
our bruised, bleeding lips are forced to press and 
kiss the reeking dust. Our adversary's heel crushes 
our shoulder as he glances triumphantly upward for 
the signal. Which shall it be ? It comes — thumbs up 
— we are spared — we live! 

" A trifle disheartened, amid jeers and yells of 
derision, we sullenly renew the combat; fight des- 
perately; struggle. Again slip, stumble, fall, until 
finally — " lifting the hat reverently from off his 
broad, square forehead, — " until finally, the Great 
Judge seated aloft in the blue dome overhead, merci- 
fully points, ' Thumbs down ! ' 

" And thus, Emoclew, it is over. What signifies 
or matters that our battle was nobly, fairly fought? 



70 Black Butterflies 

In the end, alas, we lose — we lose! Another is 
brought hither to fill our place ; another meets those 
smiling eyes, and is greeted — poor fool! — by that 
crumpled glove or flower, and listens to the laughs 
and cheers from the fickle galleries — " 

A slight shiver passes over and interrupts the en- 
thused young speaker. The sun sinks lazily, turning 
the spires and steeples of Rome to amethyst, pale 
rose and saffron. The misty vapors arise. The cool 
tramontana has suddenly ceased blowing, to be in- 
stantly succeeded by the close, clammy, penetrating, 
treacherous sirocco. This sultry breeze catches and 
twists Emoclew's loose gown tightly about him ; the 
other shudders more violently, drawing the heavy 
coat collar closely about his ears; the stifling oppres- 
siveness of the atmosphere increases. 

" Here ! " cries Emoclew, swift to note the second 
shiver which shakes Erlynde's frail frame, his slim 
fingers rapidly uncorking an oddly-carved silver 
flask. " Here, you must swallow some of this ! A 
little more — quick — down with it! That's right. 
Paolo told me this morning that the city is threat- 
ened with an epidemic of perniciosa. Come," au- 
thoritatively, " come ! " 

As the two men turn to depart, the full splendor 
of the setting sun's rays — gold and bronze — rest 
strong upon them, adding to the tall, spare figure 
of Emoclew an extra dignity, as he walks with long, 
measured strides, painfully gauged now, however, 



Black Butterflies 71 

to keep pace with the uneven gait of the other, whose 
dwarfish, misshapen form, grotesquely hideous, is in 
direct contradiction to his own. Slowly they pro- 
ceed, Erlynde pausing occasionally to drop a coin 
into the outstretched hand of some whining beggar, 
to be rewarded by a "Grama, signor" or an indif- 
ferent "La Madonna vi benedicia!' 

At a short distance Paolo waits with the restive 
horses tugging fretfully at their reins, tied to a 
branch of an olive tree; while Paolo, as usual, is 
amusing himself by flirting with a pretty little Nea- 
politan girl, whose brown hands he holds in both 
his own and gazes into her eyes with all the elo- 
quence he is so easily master of. 

" Humph ! " mutters Emoclew. " The rascal ! Last 
night it was the English maid at the Hotel del 
Europe, and now this little simpleton." 

" Yes," answers Erlynde, " Paolo uses no discrim- 
ination ; he can't resist sipping the honey from every 
flower he passes." 

" Bah ! He is a gourmand. Women and wine in 
moderation; too much of either is nauseating." 

Paolo has just pressed a kiss upon the girl's full, 
red lips, when, happening to glance over his 
shoulder, and catching sight of the two men, she 
utters a shrill scream, and, jerking her fingers from 
his grasp, flees like a deer; whilst Paolo, turning 
with a careless laugh and utmost sang-froid, unties 



72 Black Butterflies 

the horses which they hurriedly mount and set off 
at a sharp gallop. 

The atmosphere is filled with a quivering, danger- 
ous moisture which thickly envelops in a vaporish 
mist the olive groves and vineyards. From the 
Campagna they turn speedily transverse, past the 
towering, monumental tomb of Cecilia Metella. 
This noble structure, erected in loving memory of 
the many virtues of an idolized wife by a heart- 
broken husband, has withstood the storms of nine- 
teen centuries, though profaned; for now the un- 
sightly, incongruous battlements unmistakably show 
the cruel scars of war upon its dauntless front ; from 
its base now emerges a little, ragged goatherd, dig- 
ging his sharp, white teeth into a thick slice of black 
bread. 

On they dash, through this vast, desolate region, 
past the remains of the once magnificent circus of 
Romulus and Dominie Quo Vadis. On — on — past 
countless buried, long-forgotten Romans, within 
whose crumbling tombs, sublime even in decay, 
many a roving vagabond scamp finds temporary 
shelter, and perchance smashes up a mummy to boil 
his soup. 

Across the ruinous waste, mingled with the wind 
from the cold current of the Tiber, sweeps the sooth- 
ing, droning sounds of a zampogna, played, no 
doubt, by some strolling fellow who has possibly 
begged a lift upon one of the many wine-laden carts. 



Black Butterflies 73 

Erlynde and Emoclew slacken their reins to gaze 
on the mighty grandeur about them, which nothing 
disturbs save an occasional belated horseman, who, 
clad in picturesque costume and armed with coiled 
ropes, dashes past at breakneck speed. 

" Soft o'er the fountain, ling'ring falls the southern moon ; 
Far o'er the mountain breaks the day — " 

Erlynde reels, clutching the pommel of his saddle, 
for Paolo, jogging on behind, lazily flecking with 
his whip the tops of the white flowers from off their 
stems growing commingled with the green grass, 
gleaming like tiny, ghostly stars, has suddenly burst 
into melody, and in a voice so high, pure, sweet, 
trills the words of this beautiful old Italian song. 

" For God's sake, brace up, old chap ! " Emoclew, 
fearful of the deadly perniciosa, clutches his friend's 
arm in a vise-like grip, and again produces the silver 
flask. " Take a long pull, Guy," anxiously. 

" It is nothing," answers the other, shaking his 
head. " It is nothing, Emoclew ; but that voice 
startled me for an instant. I could have sworn it 
was my brother Dacre's; and, strange coincidence, 
too, that is his favorite song." 

" Is that all ? " heaving a sigh of relief. " Thank 
heaven it was nothing worse! I was afraid that 
villainous fever had you. Paolo," sneeringly, " is 
a buffooning idiot, singing and chattering almost 
everything in every language under the sun, yet, 



74 Black Butterflies 

like a parrot, never knows the meaning of what he 
says or mimics." And simultaneously both put 
spurs to their horses' flanks, and are soon speeding 
toward Roma Vecchi 

Around the trunk and limbs of Guy Erlynde's 
family tree, the rank, thick vines and blossoms of 
corruption grew apace, destroying, killing in quick 
succession, until, curiously enough, of that once 
mighty race, the sole relic of their sin and vice is 
this stunted, misshapen thing. 

Erlynde's painfully sensitive nature repels him 
from mingling with the world. Loving beauty with 
an abnormal passion akin to worship, his own ap- 
pearance was to him an everlasting horror and 
shame — striving to win forgetfulness, of which he 
sought consolation by burying himself deep in 
Horace and Virgil; content, in his wanderings 
through the East, to dream away his life ; idly living 
over again the delightful Graeco-Roman period. 
He attempted — nay, wrote — some fairly good classic 
verse, delicate, firm and fine in outline-. He was, in 
truth, a thorough classicist. 

One morning the Mollah — a green-turbaned 
Turk, claiming direct descension from Mohammed, 
in charge of the Kahriye Mosque, one of the most 
ancient temples in Constantinople, whose paintings 
and mosaics Erlynde delighted to examine and study 
— was absent, and his place temporarily filled by an- 
other, between whom and the Englishman a pleasant 



Black Butterflies 75 

acquaintance began which speedily developed into 
sincere friendship. 

When Erlynde left Constantinople, he wandered 
aimless, purposeless, until by chance, several months 
later in Bengal, happening to attend a ceremony in 
a Hindoo temple, they met again. The temple was 
to be dedicated to the Goddess Doorga — Emoclew's 
special deity. The Englishman, contrary to custom 
and as a mark of honor, was permitted during the 
rites to cast a flower into the basin of water, which 
fortunately floated to the right — a good and ex- 
cellent omen — which cemented the friendship of 
these two still more strongly. 

Emoclew, a strange mixture of Oriental fanati- 
cism and modern common sense, though a Brahmin, 
was far advanced of his fellows. In some instances 
his nature was simple as a child's ; in others he was 
strangely unfathomable. 

A strong fascination, blended with awe — not fear 
— drew Guy Erlynde in friendship, day by day, 
nearer and closer, in an unbreakable bond to the 
Hindoo. 

This queer mortal, despite his scoffing and mock- 
ery at the many absurdities, erratical customs of his 
race, devotedly, from the first to the ninth lunar day, 
observed the worship of Doorga, clearly illustrating 
the fact that the ridiculous superstitions of his creed 
were not banished; merely, owing to his broad- 
European learning and extensive travels, lying dor- 



76 Black Butterflies 

mant, only awaiting that single spark to his fatal, 
heretic nature, to burst into swift, uncontrollable 
flame. 

Of this taint in his friend's otherwise loyal and 
noble character, Erlynde was fully conscious, and 
loved him none the less ; and admired him immense- 
ly, possibly more on account of his mysterious, 
bizarre theories, ideas ; and, being the weaker of the 
two both mentally and physically, was it strange that 
he should lean upon this brilliant Brahmin, relying 
wholly on his dictations, and gladly rendering him 
a certain amount of homage? Nothing could sur- 
pass, nay, equal, the loyalty and truth existing be- 
tween these two men, so widely different ; dissimilar 
in form, temper, nature and nationality ; whom Fate 
seemed ever to delight in casting unexpectedly to- 
gether. They had parted in Constantinople to meet 
in Egypt; again in St. Petersburg, and, through 
the mysterious channels which Destiny sometimes 
leads us, had met once more in Rome. 



VI 

" The visions that oft to worldly eyes, 
The glitter of mines unfold." 

" Will you come with us ? " cries Trixie Fairfax, 
approaching, followed by several of her guests. 
" Will you come with us ? We are going to have a 
gypsy tea over yonder," nodding toward the lindens, 
" where there is shade and a breeze." 

" Yeth, do," lisps Bobs, Trixie's wee daughter, as, 
hugging a huge doll, the counterpart of herself, she 
toddles up to Dacre, who, with Invorarity, is lying 
stretched at full length beneath the branches of a 
copper beech. " Yeth, do, you lazy, big mans." 

Dacre, a prime favorite of hers, jumps to his feet, 
and regardless of the doll, which slips to the ground, 
catches the little thing, who shouts with delight, and 
tosses her high above his head, whilst Trixie's little 
spaniel whirls and scampers with curved body madly 
around him. 

Invorarity, pretending to weep copiously, picks 
up the discarded doll. 

"Is she dead?" gasps Bobs. 

" No, not quite," mournfully ; " her ankle is 
sprained, her nose is smashed, and a few ribs broken, 

but she may live, if " 

77 



78 Black Butterflies 

" Give her to me," screams Bobs. 

" See, Bobs," tantalizingly swinging the doll to 
and fro by a flaxen curl, " see, what a miserable 
wreck. I very much fear she is really no more use ; 
but, if you w T ill come and kiss me, you shall have 
her." 

"I won't! "yells Bobs. 

" Now there'll be an awful row," laughs Trixie, 
as Bobs, endeavoring to regain her own, lets forth 
a volley of naughty little petulant oaths which she 
has learned, goodness knows where; then bursting 
into passionate tears, flies at Invorarity like a small 
Fury, and after gaining possession of the doll, gath- 
ers it into a maternal embrace. 

" Come," says Dacre, who has constructed an im- 
promptu couch of dry leaves and moss for the in- 
valid doll. " Come, let us move her a little and make 
her more comfortable." 

" No, no," beseechingly, " you will hurt the poor 
dear. Look! She has got a fever." 

"I wonder if she wants some water?" inquires 
Miss Brabazon, kindly. 

" Will you drink, my dear ?" sighs Bobs, dolefully. 
" There, there," wetting her tiny lace handkerchief, 
and laying it tenderly across the tip of the injured 
doll's nose, in the faint, fond hope that this simple 
remedy will prove beneficial. As the child flutters, 
hovering tearfully above the waxen toy, the guests 



Black Butterflies 79 

are convulsed with silent mirth, with the exception 
of Invorarity, who exclaims wrathfully : 

" Deuce take it ! I can't stand this sort of thing 
any longer, you know. It always maddens me to 
see a female child hugging to her innocent breast a 
beastly doll. Pitch the cursed thing away! Put a 
top, a ball, kite, marbles in her hands instead. Let 
her enjoy her brief youth. Maternity, with all its 
bitter cares, responsibilities and sorrows, comes, God 
knows, only too soon." 

" Amen !" laughs Trevor, brushing several yellow 
beech leaves from his shoulder. " Amen ! Invorar- 
ity, what you say is indisputable; nevertheless we 
mortals are a constant contradiction; no sooner are 
we able to lisp or toddle than we imitate the staid 
mannerisms of Age. Presto ! No sooner do we at- 
tain that period than we ape the follies of Youth." 

" That is because we delight in contrasts," inter- 
poses Dacre. " Pray explain why the coy, sweet 
maiden of sixteen chooses as her beau ideal the man 
of fifty, whilst the matron of forty dotes on the boy 
of twenty. Human nature; nothing else." 

" Humph," snaps Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, leaning 
closely against Vivian Hyde's shoulder (who is con- 
tentedly munching tarts and biscuit by the score). 
This remark seems to convey more of personal sig- 
nificance even than that regarding waste-paper 
baskets. " Humph, how very absurd ! ' : 

" Heigh-ho ! " sighs Mr. Dacre, stretching himself 



80 Black Butterflies 

upon the ground, and comfortably propping his head 
against his sister's knee. " Heigh-ho ! we earthlings 
run around in a perpetual circle " 

"Hark!" enjoins Kath, solemnly. "Listen! 
Julian is surely going mad." 

" Yes," acquiesces Patrick Invorarity, "the sun is 
a trifle hot for weak brains." 

" Nay, my lady love," answers Dacre. " I'm only 
mad on one subject." 

"And that is?" queries Kath. 

** Yourself " — promptly. " But what was I say- 
ing, Miss, when you so rudely interrupted me? " 

" I think," hazards Peggie, " it was something 
about perpetual motion, or " 

" Ah ! Now I remember, I was remarking, we 
earthlings run around in a perpetual circle. Take, 
for instance, the unsophisticated youth who, im- 
mediately upon reaching, struts along Life's high- 
way, to instantly succumb, recklessly cast all at the 
feet of the first blase enchantress whom he meets, 
and, flattered, arrogant, proud of her favor, her open 
preference for him above all his older rivals, swag- 
geringly assumes a boastful air, and, forswearing 
fealty to poor, fond little Phyllis, who, foolish soul ! 
amongst the buttercups, daisies and green meadows 
patiently awaits his return, and, alas ! on whom he 
now seldom bestows a thought save an occasional 
brief, disparaging remembrance and blush for his 
silly, hobbledehoy sweethearting days — whilst he 



Black Butterflies 81 

compares his first love's simple pink and white pretti- 
ness to his present enslaver's manufactured 
charms " 

" Oh, I say," interpolates Mr. Invorarity, " he 
ought to be stopped !" 

" Yes," chimes Miss Brabazon, " if he keeps this 
up much longer we'll have to resort to drastic meas- 
ures." 

" But," continues Mr. Dacre, quietly ignoring 
these interruptions, " in after years the foibles and 
frailties of this experienced coquette fail to please, 
amuse ; consequently her blandishments pall on him, 
and becoming weary, satiated with hollow, worldly 
vanities, he eventually — when age casts its first 
frosty shadows before, and a whiff of its icy breath 
touches his cheek — then, then he arrives at the same 
point from where he started in youth, to carefully 
select as a mainstay in his declining years, bread 
and butter prettiness, congratulating himself, mean- 
while, on so wise and judicious a choice with one in 
whose hands his honor (of which he suddenly be- 
comes extremely solicitous) will be safe, and his 
line worthily propagated." 

" You are talking a lot of rubbish, I think, dear," 
laughs Mrs. Fairfax, at the conclusion of this speech, 
running her fingers through her brother's curly hair. 

" Nay," smiles Lalage, " not rubbish at all. I," 
with a tranquil glance toward Dacre, " thoroughly 
enjoyed it." 



82 Black Butterflies 

"Do you speak from experience, Mr. Dacre?" 
asks Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, with an insinuating 
glance toward Lalage, whose meaning conveys vol- 
umes. 

" No," answers Julian, " not personal experience; 
my ideas are formed from general observation." 

" Ah, indeed ! " smiles she at this rebuff. " Then 
you evidently carry a mirror with you." 

" And yet," continues Dacre, ignoring Mrs. 
Stryker's words, stirring his tea thoughtfully, " and 
yet the only prop and consolation of our declining 
years is the remembrance of those selfsame 'youth- 
ful follies.' " 

" Thou aged and feeble sage ! " scoffs Miss Brab- 
azon, casting a mischievous glance from beneath her 
curling lashes at the speaker, and whose impish, 
dark beauty is thrice enhanced by the startling red 
gown she wears. " Thou aged and feeble sage ! " 
mockingly, " you probably speak from experience ; if 
so, your declining years should happily be filled — 
crowded — with many such reminiscences. Now, 
don't be cross ; I mean innocent little reminiscences,' 
of course. Please throw me a tart. Thanks," 
sweetly, as the tart spitefully alights in her lap, jam 
side down. 

" Poor fellow," sighs Peggie Padelford, plain- 
tively. " Somehow he has missed the sweets of life ; 
consequently it has embittered his disposition." 

" Sour grapes is his complaint," answers Invorar- 



Black Butterflies 83 

ity, moving toward Mrs. Demaris, who is looking 
entracingly beautiful this warm afternoon; the 
sun, sifting through the lindens, turning her un- 
common shade of hair alternately into different hues 
— red, gold and bronze. Her gown, too, of some 
queer, soft, diaphanous material, is essentially be- 
coming, being scarcely whiter than her perfect face 
and faultless neck and arms. 
" Sour grapes," repeats the Irishman. 

" Oh, go to blazes ! " Dacre turns irritably ; a 
branch overhead has apparently interfered with his 
attention and — temper. 

" The fickle God of Love has flown past," sighs 
Joan Nettleton, " and evidently shown him a clean 
pair of heels." 

" Love, forsooth ! " glancing furtively toward La- 
lage. " Love is nothing but a tangled mass of false 
illusions. I don't believe in such trumpery stuff — 
at least, not woman's love ; it is all deceit and — er — 
that sort of thing. I want none of it." 

" That shot's intended for her. See ! her cheeks 
are turning positively scarlet," whispers Mrs. Ligh- 
ton-Stryker to her bosom friend, Mrs. Carew, who 
replies, 

" Yes, Dacre's jealous as a Turk." 

" And no wonder/' accedes Priscilla Stryker. 
" The way she carried on with Invorarity last night 
was positively shocking." 

" Ho, Dacre ! " cries Miss Brabazon, " What a 



84 Black Butterflies 

nasty speech. How you must hate us. Oh, cruel 
one I " in mock tones of grief, " are we to infer that 
you contemplate celibacy ? " 

" Infer whatever you please," laconically. 

" He's trying to draw her out." Mrs. Lighton- 
Stryker leans toward Mrs. Carew's ear. " Now 
we'll have some fun." 

But if Lalage has heard Dacre's remarks, she 
appears totally unconscious ; her face is as imperturb- 
able as usual as she calmly murmurs in answer to 
Trixie's inquiry regarding refreshments : 

" Yes, another cup, please ; not any sugar, thank 
you. No, nor cream, either. I'm like the Russians 
— or — which is it? " — with that soft little laugh of 
hers — " the Chinese, who drink their tea straight? " 

She gathers a handful of crumbs and casts them 
to the gorgeous peacock, who, followed by his 
humble brown mate, has ventured nearer and nearer, 
and now boldly pecks at the shimmery folds of her 
white gown. Dacre feels the meanness of his words, 
and yet, another side glance at her lovely, serene 
face is enough to enforce its continuance. She does 
not show the least inclination to join in the general 
conversation, nor exhibit a particle of interest. 

" I'm sure she's in love with him, for all her 
seeming indifference," snickers Mrs. Stryker. 

" Hush ! " answers Mrs. Carew, warningly. 
" Hush, he's going to say something," — and he does. 

" Some fools make goddesses of women ; some, 



Black Butterflies 85 

idols ; some, servants or slaves ; and some, what they 
really are — toys. All women are insatiable, delusive 
coquettes of the first water." 

" What a fib ! " flares Kath Brabazon, angrily, 
making a tempestuous motion toward him with her 
fist. " How dare you say such horrid things ? On 
the contrary, man is the most insatiable creature in 
existence." 

" That's right ; give it to him, dear," lazily drawls 
Peggie Padleford, who is lying, stretched Cleopatra- 
like, upon a grassy knoll. " Defend us at all haz- 
ards." 

" I'm loyal to the fair sex, and agree with Miss 
Brabazon. Woman is man's superior, by far," says 
Invorarity, who is comfortably wedged in between 
Lalage and a tree-trunk. " Faith ! look at the num- 
ber of heroines the world can proudly boast of." 

" Heroines ! Ha, ha ! Never were any ; never 
will be any," retorts Dacre. 

" History can't lie," answers Mrs. Lighton- 
Stryker, tartly. " Look at Jeanne d'Arc." 

" H'm, history," tantalizingly, " history doesn't 
lie ; it simply prevaricates — which is worse — to eulo- 
gize and screen the frailties of your absurd sex." 

" Oh, treason ! " cries Miss Brabazon, wrathfully. 
" Dacre, you are a brute." 

" I'll wager," continues Dacre, undaunted, " I'll 
wager when Joan of Arc was in the thickest of the 
fight, busily raising the siege of Paris, she was 



86 Black Butterflies 

trembling in her boots for fear her back hair would 
tumble down." 

" She had no cause for fear," says Mrs. Lighton- 
Stryker. " She was not like the majority of modern 
women nowadays. I'm certain her hair" — with a 
spiteful glance directly toward Lalage's glorious, 
abundant tresses — " I'm certain her hair wasn't false 
nor — dyed." 

" Dacre's brutal — simply brutal," says Invorarity. 
"Eh, Mrs. Demaris?" 

" Such a silly subject," she frowns slightly. " For 
goodness' sake change it." 

" And she pretended not to listen," whispers Mrs. 
Stryker. 

" You can rest assured she heard every word," 
answers Jane Carew. " Believe me, there is more in 
this than we are aware of." 

" Not the least doubt of it, my dear," acquiesces 
the other. " He positively glared at her." 

" I say ! This is beastly slow," yawns Vivian, who 
has just finished the last biscuit and emptied his 
seventh cup of tea. 

" So glad to hear your voice again," carols some 
one. 

" Yes," cries another, " though I have heard it is 
considered wisest to let sleeping dogs lie." 

To this witticism Vivian Hyde grunts, without 
deigning any answer. 

" Hello ! " From the distance approach Hume, 



Black Butterflies 87 

Teddy Stryker and Chatwin, equipped with shoot- 
ing jackets, guns and bulging game bags slung 
across their shoulders. " Hello ! May we have some 
tea ? " shout they. 

" Oh, for mercy's sake ! " screams Trixie Fairfax, 
gathering her dainty skirts about her. " For mercy's 
sake, call your nasty dogs away ! The horrid things 
are jumping over everything. Oh ! '' turning de- 
spairingly toward Trevor, " Oh, do try to chase them 
off. Ugh! The wretches are actually licking my 
hands." 

" An' you love me, Mrs. Fairfax," says Teddy 
Stryker, " a cup of tea." 

" You don't deserve any, you cruel monster," cries 
pretty Peggie Padleford, indignantly. " Out all day 
destroying, killing these poor little innocent birdies." 
Reaching into Teddy's game bag and drawing forth 
a pheasant, she holds the wee, limp body in her slim, 
white hands, tenderly stroking the silvery-gray 
feathers which are thickly bespattered with blood. 
" For shame, Teddy ! Trixie, don't give him any 
tea." 

" What a Bacchanalian scene." Hume, looking 
very handsome in his hunting toggery, casts an ad- 
miring glance toward Lalage, who smiles most gra- 
ciously in return. " Any tea left? " 

" I'm afraid not," answers Trixie, peering anx- 
iously into the teapot. " Scold Vivian ; he's the 
culprit. I've just drained the last drop for him. 



88 Black Butterflies 

He has devoured the tea, bread, cake, tarts, biscuit 
— everything." 

" Not so much as a crumb left to swear by," says 
Teddy Stryker, gloomily. 

" By Jove, Hyde," says Hume, reproachfully, 
" you are a thundering glutton." 

" I can't eat any more," sighs Bobs, reluctantly 
casting aside a morsel of sponge cake, which the 
three young men, amidst shouts of laughter, wildly 
scramble for, like famished wolves or starving, ship- 
wrecked sailors. " I can't eat any more," repeats 
Bobs, stretching her dimpled arms toward Dacre. 
" Come, please carry me home, you dreat, big mans." 

" Darling," he whispers, as he passes behind La- 
lage to reach the tired baby, " darling, darling, for- 
give me! " 



VII 

" He comes at last in sudden loneliness 

And whence they know not, why they need not guess." 

"Who the deuce is she?" mutters Erlynde. A 
magnetic influence seems to possess, overpower him. 
He moves uneasily, and again lifts his eyes, which 
follow a slender ray of light, straight through the 
tiny space of the floral barrier in front of him, to 
meet a pair of wondrous, peculiar eyes opposite, 
which steadily return his gaze for perhaps the space 
of a second. " Who the deuce is she ? " Then turn- 
ing to his neighbor, " Will you favor me with the 
carte du pays, Miss Brabazon? I have been intro- 
duced all around, I think, yet have become somewhat 
mixed amongst so many strange faces. Fortunately, 
I'm familiar with most of the male portion, so you 
may skip them." ' 

" With pleasure," Miss Brabazon laughs good- 
naturedly and accordingly dashes into details with 
her usual happy aplomb. " The girl seated next to 
Teddy Stryker is Peggie Padleford; the dearest, 
sweetest " 

" Yes, yes," laughs Guy. " My dear Kath, I re- 
member Peggie now, very well. Pray spare me 
your rhapsodies — move on. Who is next ? ,: 

89 



90 Black Butterflies 

"Hump! That's Mrs. Lighton-Strykor." Miss 
Brabazon's red lips curl scornfully. " She pretends 
to be a writer, lecturer, or something equally un- 
pleasant. The category of the gifts she lays claim 
to is unlimited. One thing, I vow, she does possess, 
and that's a tongue. " 

Erlynde laughs outright, which causes the lady 
under discussion to stare at them for a moment 
through her gold pince-nez. 

" Look at her," crossly mutters Miss Brabazon, 
" she has no more need of those eye-glasses than I 
have. She merely wears them to look distinguished 
or clever — disagreeable old creature ! " 

" It is evident you don't love Mrs. Stryker." 

" Not I," shortly. " I despise her. She is mean 
and spiteful and always saying things." Kath has 
evidently not escaped that lady's tart tongue. 
" Why," in a burst of candor, " she wasn't in the 
house ten minutes when I overheard her call me 'a 
horrid young woman.' The wretch ! Just because 
I allowed Valentine Hume to tie my sandal." 

" Honi soit qui mat y pense," quotes Erlynde. 

" Yes," agrees Miss Brabazon, " and the bare- 
faced manner in which she carries on with that 
greedy Vivian Hyde is too absurd. She married 
Teddy under the impression that he had a pile of 
money ; " — with a malicious little snicker — " she 
was woefully mistaken, though." 

" Why did he marry her ? I remember Peg and 



Black Butterflies 91 

Teddy loved each other from the time they wore 
pinafores and made mud pies." 

" Goodness knows/' shrugging her shapely 
shoulders. " Teddy always was easy-going, and she 
coerced or bullied him into it, no doubt. The gossips 
have already predicted that Peggie and Teddy would 
run off together some day; and considering every- 
thing," says this very unconventional young woman, 
" I wouldn't blame them if they did. Look at her, 
now, whispering to Vivian. I'm positive she's talk- 
ing about me. Ton my soul! " wrathfully, " I feel 
like flinging a knife at her head." 

Again Erlynde laughs, and is once more favored 
with an icy stare through the offensive glasses. 

" The one in black velvet, who has just taken a 
sip out of Barnaby's glass," continues his cicerone, 
" is Joan Nettleton, a former schoolmate of Trixie's. 
Despite her apparent demureness, they say she as- 
sociates with a rowdy set in London. She's an in- 
veterate gambler, too. Julian declares she plunges 
frightfully and wins or loses a fortune in an hour 
without turning a hair. Common rumor has it she 
dropped a pot on John Gilpin, Thor Jethro's horse, 
less than a fortnight ago. Her maid told mine that 
she has a beastly temper and swears like a trooper 
and " 

"Her husband?" 

" I believe report has him in China, or Jericho, 
I've really forgotten which; but for all it concerns 



92 Black Butterflies 

• » 

her, I'm sure he might just as well be in the moon. 
She is going up to London in the morning; Mr. 
Barnaby will be disconsolate. I know she borrowed 
some money from him," nonchalantly, " I heard her 
ask him for it." 

" The other one, with her hair cropped short like 
a boy's, is Jane Carew, a crony of Priscilla Stryker's 
and built precisely on the same plan, so it will be 
useless to bother with her," contemptuously, " she 
isn't worth it." 

" That lady in the amethyst-colored gown, talk- 
ing to Valentine Hume, is Rosamond Arbuthnot. 
Yes," in answer to his horrified look, blended with 
incredulous amazement, the quick tears rushing to 
and threatening to overflow Kath Brabazon's bright 
eyes, " yes, isn't it cruelly dreadful ? " with a nervous 
little jerk, catching a fold of her trembling lip be- 
tween her small, sharp teeth. 

" I will make the story terse as possible. It ap- 
pears," valiantly striving to stifle the sob which, 
suddenly arising, swells her full, round throat, show- 
ing that this jolly, rollicking girl carries a woman's 
tender, loving heart in that fair, soft bosom of hers 
— " It appears," sinking her erstwhile gay voice to 
a whisper, " before she married there was some one 
awfully in love with her — a cousin, I think — who, 
when she married Mr. Arbuthnot — an astronomer, 
a queer, studious kind of fellow — swore to be re- 
venged, and worked, Iago-like, on the husband's 



Black Butterflies 93 

jealous nature, until, by degrees, he finally persuaded 
the man (who was really partly demented from 
overstudy) to believe his wife faithless; the result 
of which, one night while Rosamond slept, her hus- 
band, with the fearful cunning of insanity, before 
heating to a white heat, bent, twisted some narrow 
astronomical wires, constructing them into those 
letters forming that false, shameful word which he 
cruelly branded upon his sleeping wife's forehead; 
after which deed the wretch went raving mad — so 
I've heard — and blew out his brains that same night. 

" To my certain knowledge, there is not another 
woman of my acquaintance so truly pure as Rosa- 
mond Arbuthnot, who is loved by every one. She 
is goodness and virtue personified. If ever there 
was a saint on earth, it is she. Her influence is so 
soothing, so heavenly." 

" I can easily believe that ; there is an expression 
in her eyes more akin to heaven than earth." 

" Yes, the men are altogether different when Rosa- 
mond is present. Their frivolous manners change 
instantly to the utmost deference. I've even noticed 
they shake hands differently, more courteously, with 
her than any other woman. They would no more 
presume to squeeze her hand than fly." 

" And now," entreats Erlynde, is an undertone, 
" pray tell me, who is my vis-a-vis? " 

" Oh," craning her neck around the mass of blos- 
soms, " this load of flowers has almost caused me to 



94 Black Butterflies 

slight the most important one of them all. That's 
Mrs. Demaris; so adorable. Trixie and she are 
warm friends. They met out in India. Is she not 
beautiful?" enthusiastically. "And has such a ro- 
mantic history, too. She was married to a very old 
man, an Anglo-Indian, tremendously rich. He was 
killed by somebody," vaguely, " or something — at 
any rate, he is dead, and left a will with a clause — 
a nasty little clause, which no one but a jealous, 
viperish old fossil would do — stating that should his 
young widow remarry, she must forfeit everything. 
Rather shabby, I take it — don't you ? " 

" Rather a dog in the manger affair, I should im- 
agine," answers Erlynde. 

"Yes, wasn't it?" agrees Kath. " Dacre, your 
half-brother," lowering her voice confidentially, " is 
quite mad about her. It is the talk of the county. 
She is the original of his last painting — some queer 
Roman subject, where a woman is to be smothered 
to death by falling rose leaves. Hume says it will 
make his fortune. But if Miss Yarrow, his affi- 
anced, happens to get wind of his devotion to Mrs. 
Demaris, it will be all up with him in that quarter." 

" And she — Mrs. Demaris " with a sudden 

hitherto unknown sharp pain piercing his heart — 
" Does she seem to reciprocate this devotion ? " 

" It is hard to know," meditatively shaking her 
curly head. " There is something so unapproach- 
able about Mrs. Demaris. Much as I admire and 



Black Butterflies 95 

like her, I have never become really very friendly; 
she has such a stately air and manner, it appalls 
me." And from this their conversation drifts into 
other channels. 

"Why does the idiot stare so?" Lalage leans 4 
further back in her chair, for through the floral 
screen those eyes are once more seeking her own. 

Trixie Fairfax, oblivious to everything save Tre- 
vor, with whom she is flirting abominably, seems to 
have entirely forgotten to give the required signal. 

" Botheration ! " fretfully grumbles Mrs. Lighton- 
Stryker, who has sat with her gloves buttoned for 
the last ten minutes, " Botheration ! Why does she 
keep us sitting here like a lot of geese, and — You 
clumsy mortal ! " as an attendant, stooping over to 
refill Vivian's glass, accidentally brushes her pow- 
dered shoulder — " I protest. Trixie is getting worse 
and more remiss every meal." 

The room being warm and close, Mrs. Stryker is 
longing for a stroll in the shrubbery with Vivian, 
who is contentedly dallying with a crimson water 
ice by her side. 

Joan Nettleton is likewise impatient; having ob- 
tained the desired loan, she is uneasy. There are one 
hundred things to attend to and superintend as she 
leaves at daybreak, and — that imbecile of a new 
maid never can be taught to fold a skirt properly. 
Joan is seized with the gamester's fever, impatient 
to take another tilt, but not a shade of that im- 



96 Black Butterflies 

patience is visible on her serene, Clytie-like brow; 
her well-bred languor is the reverse of haste; by no 
action does she betray her annoyance save once her 
white teeth click so hard and savagely against the 
wine glass as to almost break it. 

" Are you really asleep, Mrs. Demaris ? I have 
spoken to you twice, but you seemed deaf, dumb and 
blind." 

" Pardon," she smiles, " you must think me very 
rude." 

" I was merely remarking," answers Invorarity, 
" that if looks count for anything — and I think they 
do — you have made another conquest." 

" Your meaning? " asks she, in her pretty, curious 
way. 

" Impossible that you haven't noticed Erlynde's 
ardent glances all during dinner ? " 

" Erlynde's glances ? " Lalage suddenly sits up- 
right, her face a trifle flushed, as she apprehensively 
scans the different guests. 

" What ? " in astonishment. Didn't you know our 
host had returned — arrived quite unexpectedly an 
hour or so before dinner." 

" But," argues she, in painful embarrassment, " I 
thought — er — understood that he was — — " 

" Deformed, eh ? " 

She nods acquiescence. 

" Well, so he is, and beastly conscious of it, too, 
poor chap ! but when seated it is scarcely noticeable. 



Black Butterflies 97 

In short, Mrs. Demaris, Guy Erlynde is your vis- 
a-vis." 

Lalage's eyes are calm, but filled with natural sur- 
prise as she again meets those clear, brown orbs op- 
posite. The first time she missed the fact that there 
was nothing but admiration in his gaze. 

" You see," continues Invorarity, " I've known 
him for years ; we were great chums at school and 
college. He was a forlorn little fellow — that is what 
first attracted me, I being a wild, harum-scarum lad 
— yet he would eye me with such an unconscious, 
urgent appeal for companionship and sympathy it 
instantly touched the cockles of my heart. 

" He is wonderfully clever, too, in a bookish way, 
being a poet, and an astronomer, also, of no mean 
note ; they say a formidable rival of M. Flammarion. 
He cares nothing — or seemingly cares nothing — for 
the modern world. Women, in particular, were al- 
ways his especial bete noir. I'm quite sure," glanc- 
ing toward her with a sly twinkle in his merry, 
Irish eyes, " he has never cared to look twice at the 
face of any woman since his mother died, till to- 
night. In short, he is a dreamer, living solely upon 
the poetry of Nature, quite oblivious, forgetful of 
the commonplace prose." 

" But," quoth she, " the poetry is merely the froth 
of life; prose is surely more stable." 

" The froth," answers Invorarity, " never gorges 



98 Black Butterflies 

us, while the prose is liable to give us indigestion; 
it is a trifle solid, you know." 

" Ah, true," Lalage laughs, and with a quick, 
childish gesture, altogether charming, with both 
hands pushes the wiry red hair from off her fore- 
head. " Ah, true. And I'm certain more than half 
the crimes committed on this planet are caused and 
could be traced directly to that fatal malady, indiges- 
tion. It will make a fiend of any mortal; I had an 
attack, once, and know the bitter sorrow of it." 

"Indeed, you?" incredulously. "I can scarcely 
believe that." 

" Truth, I assure you. The laws of nature are 
stronger than the laws of man. I have always main- 
tained that if we give proper care to our digestive 
organs — that is, attend strictly to the inner man — 
the outer man will take care of himself." 

" Wrong there," dryly. " I differ with you ; look 
at Vivian. The amount that fellow eats would fill 
a regiment of soldiers, and " 

An audible " Thank heaven ! " from Mrs. Lighton- 
Stryker interrupts Invorarity's further speech, as 
the hostess, suddenly becoming aware of the sur- 
rounding situation, and encountering several pairs 
of reproachful eyes, hurriedly gives the requisite 
and longed-for signal to arise. 



VIII 

"Take, take them back, the gift and vow, 
All sullied, lost and hateful now !" 

Dacre yawns for the hundredth time, walking 
with long, impatient strides about the room, and 
for the hundredth time glances toward the small 
ormolu clock. He is commencing to feel in a de- 
cidedly injured mood. Yet, despite his annoyance, 
he is fain to acknowledge she is justified in her tar- 
diness; also, in ordering him hither by the terse, 
peremptory, lilac-scented note which he holds 
crumpled in his hand. And the fact that he knows 
himself blamable vexes him. No man, however dis- 
honorable, cares to appear, to know himself a cad — 
in a woman's opinion; especially that woman to 
whom he has plighted his troth. 

He glances about the room, which in the past had 
been so familiar, and which now assumes a most 
unreal aspect. The placid air of true refinement 
clings to every article, dainty and neat; no vulgar 
gewgaws, nothing but sweet, womanly trifles. 
Here is her work basket — her tiny gold thimble. He 
remembers what a beautiful, slender hand she has, 
and then he mentally compares this sitting-room 

99 
I Off 



ioo Black Butterflies 

with one other strewn with silken cushions, low 
divans, oriental hangings, rugs, skins of every 
imaginable animal, and presided over by a glorious 
creature of barbaric splendor, who moves with the 
lithe, sinuous grace of an untamed, jungle-bred 
young tigress, and who arouses his passions and 
blood to fever heat, causing him to forget all bonds 
and ties in her voluptuous presence. Whilst here, 
this abode is a haven of bliss, soothing, restful — 
and then a mighty flood of remorse assails him. 
Alas ! the inconstancy of man ! Only one hour pre- 
vious he hailed the advent of his freedom with rap- 
ture; now it seems he would give the world to re- 
claim this woman, whom, through his willful folly, 
he has forever lost. And as craven Adam of old 
blamed Eve, so does Dacre now blame and curse his 
temptress. 

He is convinced, now, that Margaret it is, whom 
he has always loved, and the thought that this hap- 
piness is surely slipping from his grasp almost mad- 
dens him. He knows the truth, now, when it is too 
late — at least he thinks he does. Fool ! He forgets 
we mortals are all virtuous and will remain so only 
till temptation again crosses our path. 

Dacre seems to have shut his eyes to all conse- 
quences, and abandoned himself entirely to his pas- 
sion. Day by day passed, and he could not shake off 
those delightful fetters; yet fully conscious that he 
was acting in most despicable treason toward this 



Black Butterflies 101 

girl, the recollection of whose serene, deep gray eyes 
seemed ever mutely to reproach him. And the 
battle still raged between his honor and his passion. 

" Bah !" I'm a dull, weak fool/' he would groan, 
" but when Margaret and I are once married I'll 
get over this, and then we'll hit it off all right." 
And yet with Margaret it would be a terrible exist- 
ence — one continual regret. She made no appeal 
to his sensual nature. In her presence his pulse beat 
not one whit the faster — and then the door is sud- 
denly opened and Miss Yarrow enters, with smiling 
lips and gracious, out-stretched hand, no sign of 
jealousy nor anger traceable upon her cool, pale 
countenance as she sweeps toward him. 

He had never considered Margaret pretty till this 
minute, and now it swiftly dawns upon him that she 
is essentially beautiful, with an ethereal, girlish 
beauty wholly delicious. 

Without a word he presses her cool, slim fingers 
reverently to his lips, and then she sinks languidly 
into the nearest rocker, silently motioning him into 
the opposite chair. There is a spray of purple lilac 
tucked within the belt of her simple white gown. 
She toys with it for a moment, hesitatingly, causing 
a thousand tiny, detached petals to fall upon her 
knees. 

What does she know? How much or how little 
has that ever troublesome busybody Rumor told 
her? He knows that Margaret is too intensely 



102 Black Butterflies 

proud and honorable to give ear to, or heed, mere 
idle gossip; so he sits awkwardly on the anxious- 
seat, awaiting with the same hopeless dread tugging 
dully at his quickly-beating heart, as the wretched, 
sordid criminal captured with guilty evidence upon 
him sullenly awaits the sentence condemning him 
to punishment or doom — so he awaits her mandate 
and her pleasure. He dare not plead for pardon — 
her wealth and his poverty forbid that. If their 
positions were reversed it might be possible. Yet, 
as she remains silent, an icy atmosphere of hauteur 
surrounding her, a more conceited, suspicious or 
practiced eye than his would instantly discern that 
this proud, cold girl is laboring, striving desperately 
under a heavy mental strain for self-composure. But 
to him it passes unnoticed. 

Dacre's artistic nature ever uppermost, even now, 
at this critical moment intrudes itself, and he ab- 
sently ponders what a worthy model for Lucrece she 
would make ; and in a vision sees her seated spinning, 
surrounded by her maidens, ere the vile Sextus Tar- 
quinius had polluted her chastity. 

Then, as he yearningly regards her pretty hands, 
trifling with the lilac blossoms, her downbent young 
head crowned with masses of soft, feathery dark 
hair growing so wondrously thick above the low, 
broad forehead and about the delicate, blue-veined 
temples; the sweet, disdainful mouth; the pretty, 
high-bred little nose whose thin nostrils quiver like 



Black Butterflies 103 

those of a wild steed of the pampas ; the beautifully 
moulded arms; her waist so slim, so dainty; her 
firm, round, virgin breasts, swelling, falling some- 
what irregular beneath the thin white gown, the 
sight of which spurs him to fury at the swift reali- 
zation of his loss, and he is seized with a sudden, 
wild, mad, reckless desire for her possession. To 
grasp, claim her at all hazards, to hold her, strug- 
gling, begging for mercy, in his arms, to cover her 
with hot, fierce kisses — to crush her soft, supple 
body closer — closer, till she should submit to his 
brutal force. 

A desire wholly unworthy Dacre's otherwise 
chivalrous nature, impelled doubtless by her calm, 
winsome purity — that purity which tempted Tar- 
quin to despoil Collatinus' wife of that virtue which 
was dearer by far to her than life — and which al- 
most invariably tempts man's selfish bestial, lower 
self to tarnish, contaminate that which is spotless. 

Dacre, like many another mortal, values as naught 
that which he claims or owns, yet, that object once 
lost, it is unreplaceable — its value increases a thou- 
sandfold. 

" You sent for me, Margaret? " 

" Yes," she laughs lightly and her hand leaves 
the lilac blossoms to slip from the third finger of her 
left hand a sparkling, diamond circlet, the one soli- 
tary ornament save the lilac which she wears. " Yes, 
Julian, I wished to return you this." 



104 Black Butterflies 

Although he came fully prepared for this an- 
swer, his heart sinks with an odd, chilly sensation 
of deep, unutterable loss; for while he has never, 
until this moment, experienced any feeling stronger 
than mere friendly regard for his affianced, there 
has hovered about him since his betrothment a calm, 
delightful, soothing influence of utter confidence in 
Margaret,^ who was as a cooling oasis in the torrid 
desert of his turbulent existence; and he stammers 
stupidly, 

"But, Margaret— why?— I " 

For one fleeting second her firm lips tilt with a 
shade of bitter scorn at his apparent cowardice. She 
leans forward, holding the ring toward him. 

" Take it, dear, and please forget, as I wish to 
forget, that I was ever such a simpleton as to 
wear it." 

The words carry a taunt — a well-merited rebuke. 

" You want to cast me off," rising to his feet. 
"Margaret," fiercely, " you are a vile coquette ! " 

" Now pray don't put it that way, nor call ugly 
names which you know are not true, nor nice. I," 
coolly, " simply request, nay, demand my freedom 
from a very silly, irksome alliance which we — I, at 
least — sincerely deplore ever existed." 

The words sound coldly cutting, unnecessarily 
cruel, perhaps, to one who knows not the speaker, 
whose tortured heart is strained well-nigh to 
bursting. 



Black Butterflies 105 

" Oh, very well, then," Dacre goes white as the 
hue of death with surprise, unutterable pain and 
anger. He can scarcely credit Margaret with their 
utterance. " Oh, very well, then." Taking the ring 
he grinds it savagely beneath his heel. "Your wish 
is gratified, Margaret, you are free — be satisfied." 

" Thank you," smiles she, " but is it not a pity to 
spoil so pretty a thing ? " 

And so they part, he to curse himself for a dolt — 
a blind idiot, who carelessly mistook dross for gold 
— she, to fall amidst groans and tears of anguish 
prone upon the spot where he left her, childishly 
kissing, pressing to her aching heart that bent, 
broken bauble which he in his misery had so ruth- 
lessly destroyed. 

One single word from either now would be joy- 
fully accepted; but that word is never uttered, for 
the demon Pride holds them both firmly in leash, 
and Pride, alas, is a foe which it takes only the brav- 
est to conquer. 



IX 

" Not in those climes where I have late been straying 
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deem'd; 
Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only dream'd." 

" You are a bold-faced jig " 

" Ha, ha ! " from a score of voices. 

" Yes," thunders Maggs, " yes, I repeat, bold- 
faced jig! " 

" La ! " retorts the subject of the butler's wrath, 
that same saucy maid who had rumpled his bombas- 
tic plumage upon a former occasion — " La, Mr. 
Maggs, and you're a blooming old tyrant ! " 

" A shameless minx, you, to be skylarking and 
philandering about from morning till night with 
that Italian whipper-snapper, and " 

" And I'll let you know, sir," flippantly, " I'll talk 
to whoever I choose." 

" Of one thing I'm convinced — he's some villain- 
ous pirate or brigand," says Maggs, " and it's my 
firm belief and duty to warn you, every one, we'll 
wake up some fine morning with our throats cut 
from ear " 

" Oh, Mr. Maggs, dear, don't ! " screams the 
housekeeper, clutching her fat neck between both 

1 06 



Black Butterflies 107 

plump hands. " Though I do agree with you, he's a 
queer-looking individual." 

" Well, I have merely expressed my opinion," 
says Maggs. 

" Pshaw," laughs the girl, gaily spinning around 
like a teetotum on the high heel of her smart little 
slipper. " Pshaw, Mr. Maggs ! your opinion ain't 
worth a ha'penny. Paolo is the handsomest 
amongst you," dexterously flinging out her arm dur- 
ing the giddy whirl with a deprecatory gesture 
toward the group of tall young footmen assembled 
about Maggs, and whose injured looks and lowering 
brows clearly denote the fact that they are his warm 
supporters flocking gallantly to his standard. " Pa- 
olo is the handsomest amongst you, and the nicest, 
and sings like an angel, too." 

" A fallen angel, I doubt," interposes Mrs. Bur- 
ton, also loyal to Maggs, " and a black one at that 
— black as Satan." 

" Black ? " stopping short so suddenly as to set 
awry the trifle composed of lace and ribbons called 
by courtesy a cap, perched jauntily upon her smooth, 
pretty head. " Black ! " indignantly — " you must be 
color-blind. Why, ma'am, his skin's fairer than your 
own, and his eyes," with another roguish glance at 
the footman, " Oh! " clasping her hands tragically, 
" his eyes are beautiful — so large, so brown, so " 

" Fiddlesticks ! " bellows Maggs. 



108 Black Butterflies 

" Reminds me of a Hafrican 'Ottentot," ventures 
one of the footmen. 

" And me of an hinfernal screech-howl a-tooting," 
says footman number two. " With that blawsted 
hinstrument as 'e calls a gutter constantly a-dinging 
an' a-donging into our blessed hears, I " 

But Paolo's champion, with head erect and arms 
planted firmly akimbo instantly subdues his further 
speech by such a scathing look, he is fain to slink 
meekly behind the others for shelter. 

" All's the matter with you," cries she, " you're 
all jealous because master treats Paolo with more 
freedom than he does any of you. You want to mix 
with the quality, yourselves," turning to Maggs. 

" Didn't I see you skip like a goat, when Mrs. 
Demaris dropped her fan the other evening, and 
bow and scrape like an organ-grinder when handing 
it back to her? Besides," triumphantly, "Paolo 
isn't Mr. Erlynde's servant at all — his master 's an 
Indian prince," a pardonable exaggeration, perhaps, 
under such trying circumstances. " Yes," reiterates 
the maid, " an Indian prince, who has sent Paolo on 
ahead to see about announcing him and to be sure 
that everything is in proper order to receive so dis- 
tinguished a person." 

Surprised, dead silence follows. This speech has 
the desired effect, and now the enemy is routed — 
vanquished — victory attained, the speaker can't re- 
sist — as many another, older, more wise than she 



Black Butterflies 109 

know to their cost — to let the good old plan, " well 
enough alone," and as one successful fib generally 
hatches another, continues : 

" I don't just remember, now," airily, " but I 
have heard it said somewhere that Paolo is a re- 
lation of the Prince — a distant one, of course — as 
an incredulous snort warns her it will not be safe 
to proceed much further, nor impose any longer 
upon her restive listeners' credulity. So, having 
gained that point so dear to a feminine heart — the 
last word — she gracefully beats a retreat by walking 
majestically from the room. 

The foregoing is only one of the many recent 
wrangles occurring at Castlewalls since the master's 
return; and instead of Maggs' troubles lessening (as 
he so proudly boasted) his grievances only increased, 
for Erlynde seemed contentedly to dream the hours 
away heedless of any interests, whatever, pertaining 
to his household matters. 

Trixie still held tightly to the reins of govern- 
ment, holding full sway, and Dacre's word remained 
supreme. 

The objectionable guests continued their nightly 
orgies, carousals. That priceless wine for which 
Maggs himself cherished so fond and secret a pen- 
chant was, bottle after bottle, fast disappearing, and 
not a hand put forth to save it. 

Then, too, Paolo — when the maid taunted Maggs 
with jealousy she happily hit the nail squarely on 



no Black Butterflies 

the head — for Paolo, Erlynde's handsome valet, was 
a constant source of annoyance — also a very painful 
thorn in the envious old butler's side. 

Paolo, brimming over with bonhomie, wit and rep- 
artee, combined with his gay, debonair, graceful 
manners and dress, had, alas ! in the short space of 
one week caused sad havoc amongst the numerous 
maids' susceptible hearts, with the result that they 
were all eagerly clamoring (much to Maggs' and 
sundry footmen's chagrin) for his smiles, which he 
distributed freely among them. 

Is it strange, then, that many an humble Abigail 
weeps herself nightly to sleep upon her coarse, tear- 
wet pillow, for love of a pair of laughing, dark eyes, 
just as passionately, despairingly as, perchance, her 
high-bred mistress has likewise mourned, wept for 
some recreant knight? 

Erlynde and Emoclew had parted in Italy, the 
former turning homeward, Emoclew departing, os- 
tensibly, to attend (before his promised visit to 
England) a religious ceremony in Jorasanka; and 
not wishing at such a time or occasion any incum- 
brance, begged his friend as an especial favor to take 
Paolo for the nonce off his hands, a request which 
the Englishman, who had already become somewhat 
attached to the blithe young fellow with his cheery, 
buoyant humor and the bright, sunny air of his vine- 
scented country clinging warm about him, gladly 
complied with. Such company was truly acceptable 



Black Butterflies in 

to the lonely owner of Castlewalls, whose former 
simple habits and mode of life did not change in 
the least with his accession to immense wealth, and 
required not, nor necessitated the services of a valet. 
Thus Paolo's leisure was boundless. 

Paolo assumed the change without a murmur, nor 
thought of protest, for this gay Italian's confidence, 
love for his quiet, eccentric master and patron was 
remarkable, surpassing by far any of that frothy 
affection which he so lavishly protested for all luck- 
less women who so easily attracted his roving heart 
and fickle fancy. To his beloved master's slightest 
wish, lightest word he bowed, as solemnly faithful 
as to an inexorable law. 

Erlynde's home-coming and home atmosphere 
had been a sharp disappointment. He was con- 
stantly overwhelmed with an unpleasant, restless 
feeling of discontent. His home was dissatisfying; 
something was seriously lacking — what ? 

He became more and more gloomy ; melancholy 
seized him, and his soul burned with an intense long- 
ing, yearning, for the sympathy, comforting, con- 
genial presence of Emoclew whose dry, clever cyni- 
cisms he missed, and whose companionship had now 
become almost indispensable. 

He gloomily lived over again the remembrance of 
Pinkaothek and Gytothek, where, with sculpture and 
paintings, they had loitered, dawdled at will. Then 
later, in Verona, where all day long they had wan- 



ii2 Black Butterflies 

dered, delightfully indolent, from place to place, in- 
toxicated, saturated with its languorous, fairylike 
beauty, its mysterious, brilliant coloring, and its 
coy, sweet Winter, merging reluctant into Spring; 
its lights so soft and tender, its noble, bold, capa- 
cious, dignified buildings — those structures whereon 
whose wondrous frescoes Time had partly effaced, 
their dim vagueness now more picturesque by far 
than their once vivid beauty. 

Then the churches — those dear old churches — 
with their painted windows, dark, cool aisles, wax 
candles and pleasant odor of incense commingled 
with the outside fragrance of violets, damp moss, 
and that peculiar reek of yew which heralds the tid- 
ings of Spring. 

Those old churches, so mystical, dim, subdued, 
crowded with bygone shadows. The glorious music 
from the organ floods, overflows everything, blend- 
ing in mysterious dreams of some unfathomable, 
holy Presence with outstretched arms hovering over 
the bowed heads and forms of kneeling worshipers 
in silent blessing. Ah ! dear, dear old churches ! 
How many restful hours had they passed, lingered 
within their sanctified walls! Erlynde's early nar- 
row religious training had not been weakened by 
philosophic theorizing. 

Then they visited the ancient arena with its gran- 
diose, its massive gray stone walls; the Canossa 
Palace, with its frescoes carved by Tripolo, its log- 



Black Butterflies 1 13 

gia and splendid view of the Adige; the steep Justi 
gardens, with confused masses of luxuriant, spread- 
ing rose trees and dark, magnificent cypresses. 

And then they turned their steps toward that 
most desirable sight of all Verona, the tombs of the 
Scaligers, strongly enclosed in their wonderful 
chainwork, to linger spellbound in awful contem- 
plation of that weird, mutilated statue of Can 
Grande and his charger's peculiar trappings. 

They had remained ten full days in Florence — 
Florence, that divine, rightly-named "City of Flow- 
ers " — during the early May, living an aimless, idyl- 
lic existence, strolling along the Arno from across 
whose blue waters songs of gondoliers are borne; 
arising, sallying out at midnight to feast, gloat on 
the moonlit beauties of the Piazza del Signoria. 

The Bacchanalian scenes of Rubens, Titian, with 
his warm, rich colors, they had admired, studied at 
the Academy while they had dreamily sauntered 
about, satisfying their poetic idealisms and erratic 
philosophism. 

The Pitti Palace and Ufizi were also visited. 
Erlynde reveled in drinking deep draughts of beau- 
teous enthusiasm, and to turn to the sober realism 
of prosaic life was distasteful. It is true that he 
felt occasionally terribly homesick; but that feeling 
was easily discarded amongst such loveliness, gran- 
deur and charm with which he was surrounded. 
A statue, a picture, a flower or tree, some love song 



H4 Black Butterflies 



to the accompaniment of a guitar in the distance, 
the dreamy clang of bells, the cool, lush breeze from 
the Arno — all this was enchantment, an enchant- 
ment which he longed for again. 

Erlynde had been like one of Byron's tireless 
heroes, wandering incessantly, leisurely floating 
down the curved, winding length of the Rhine, now 
skimming free as a bird across the blue depths of 
the Mediterranean, anon drifting at will, gliding 
along the smooth, green bosom of the Nile, and 
ploughing the waves, white-capped waters of two 
oceans, watching in their flight the sea-gulls poise, 
wheel, dip and cool their pinions; gazed upon the 
mighty pyramids of Egypt; studied, viewed Pales- 
tine's wondrous land; traveled Jerusalem thorough- 
ly; climbed with difficulty the lofty heights of the 
towering Himalaya; basked beneath the scorching 
sun of India; penetrated, wandered through, ex- 
plored the dangerous, exotic beauty of the thick, al- 
most inaccessible jungles, from whence those mighty 
trees and shrubbery, the fragrant orchidaceous 
plants and flowers grew, clinging, swaying from 
every available branch or bough, permeating the sul- 
try air, overpowering the senses with their unearth- 
ly, subtle, drowsy, sweet perfume. 

This, then, is the excessive beauty Guy Erlynde 
has seen, enjoyed; yet naught, none of these scenes 
or sights could equal, nay, compare with the languor- 
ous, enchanting beauty of Italy — Italy with its 



Black Butterflies^ 115 

dainty, delicate flowers and mellow fruits, its lulling 
'Ave Maria at eventide. Sweet, slumberous Italy, 
the Mecca of bliss! Fool, to have ever left those 
happy, careless days, joy and sunshine, for this pres- 
ent frivolity, levity surrounding him, which sickens, 
chafes his soul; from whence he would flee, cast 
behind, fling to the winds these sham conventional- 
isms — so false, so glaringly transparent. 

Amongst the score of visitors tarrying at Castle- 
walls, Erlynde discovered not one single kindred 
spirit. Yet stay! There was one, one whose love, 
loyal devotion, had oft been proven beyond all doubt 
or question; remaining firm, stanch through for- 
tune's many weary vicissitudes, alluring smiles. One 
whose unselfish love had been most severely tested ; 
ever faithful, never lacking, deep and true, more 
lasting by far than any human — Erlynde' s feeble 
old dog, Nero, who for years, since his master's 
childhood, bravely, uncomplainingly, shared that 
master's hardships; content, happy to trot proudly 
by his side, but who now, alas, owing to advanced 
age, was compelled to remain passively inactive at 
home. Good, noble old Nero, who had been the first 
to recognize, welcome his idolized master's longed- 
for return, demonstrating his joy with many glee- 
ful capers upon his weak old legs ; and now, despite 
his partial deafness, still pricks up his ears in pleased, 
willing answer to that well-remembered, dearly- 
loved voice or whistle, and though scarcely able to 



u6 Black Butterflies 

hobble, valiantly strives, manages to totter almost 
constantly at Erlynde's heels. 

As the days slip past, however, and the Hindoo 
still tardily lingers at Jorasanka, the master of 
Castlewalls commences to gaze upon the world with 
a more liberal aspect; judging it from a broader 
standard, life assumes a more roseate hue, he be- 
comes dimly conscious of a change — a new sensa- 
tion 1 — which he cannot rightly fathom, interpret. 
Another feeling, wholly unexplainable, so entirely 
different as one pole from the other, is slowly, surely 
usurping its place. Existence now is really becom- 
ing quite endurable. Out of the past sombreness 
issue magic sounds — music like Pan's breath blown 
against his quivering reeds. Elfin-like notes floating 
across a silver flute. The faint, sweet echoing 
strains from an angel's harp or a choir of saintly 
voices mingled, blending in one delicious harmony in 
acknowledgment, praise — of what? Something not 
sightable, answerable. 

What is it? Have the mass of thick, gorgeous 
poppies, growing so rank in the gardens, boldly 
flaunting, tossing their scarlet heads in wanton re- 
sponse to every amorous breeze that passes, care- 
less of consequence, mischievously shaken, strewn 
their narcotic seeds upon his unconscious lips ? Or, 
what unknown force propelled, caused this miracu- 
lous change, he did not question, solely content to 
know, realize such a delightful condition, hitherto 



Black Butterflies 117 

so foreign to his erratic nature, now pleasantly con- 
trols, pervades, transforms, his whole secret being, 
flooding his erstwhile empty soul with such a divine 
ecstasy, which, seemed to him, must exhale in one 
great, glad shout, proclaiming it and giving to the 
vast, assembled universe a prayer of thanks. 

Whatever were the influences, circumstances con- 
tributing to bring this state of affairs about, one 
thing is certain — all former matters have merged, 
degenerated into naught. Guy Erlynde's life will 
never resume nor run again in the old rut. The 
Fates who have overtaken him will see to that ; and 
for good or evil, will deal, slowly toy, dally indis- 
criminately with him; not, indeed, as his merits 
deserve — merely as they see fit, as their wayward 
fancies suit them. 



X 

"That dogs bark at me as I halt by them; 
Why, I, in this weak, piping time of peace, 
Have no delight to pass away the time, 
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun 
And descant on mine own deformity;" 

— King Richard III. 

" Oh, dear ! Will he eat with his ringers, and sit 
on a cushion on the floor in the middle of the draw- 
ing-room, his legs crossed a la Turque beneath him, 
smoking a hookah — I believe that's what they call 
those long pipes — with his arms folded impassively 
across his chest, and have us all skip, whirl, dance 
gracefully around him, clad in transparent gossamer 
skirts, waving gauzy scarfs aloft to slow, dreamy air 
of some hidden music ? That would be too delight- 
ful," quoth Miss Brabazon, busily engaged passing 
the tiny teacups about to the several loungers 
assembled upon the cool, green lawn. 

" Transparent skirts," echoed Mrs. Lighton- 
Stryker, covering her blushing face with both lean 
hands. " How dreadful ! Do you really mean to 
say, my dear Miss Brabazon," with that irritating, 
prudish way of hers, " do you really mean to say 
that you would participate in an exhibition so — so 
very indecently vulgar ? " 

118 



Black Butterflies 119 

" Yes, of course," with a scornful glance in that 
lady's direction, " isn't that the way the houris 
dress ? " appealing in mock innocence to Erlynde. 

" Don't know, I'm sure," chimes in Invorarity ; 
" I've never seen a houri. Beg pardon — present 
company excepted, of course. What I mean, you 
know, is — I've never seen a houri in the transparent 
state." 

" Oh, pray do hush ! " in shocked tones from Mrs. 
Stryker. 

" You ought to know," ignoring these interrup- 
tions, " you've traveled everywhere. Now please 
tell me," still waiting for Erlynde's answer, " isn't 
that the way they dress — Lalla Rookh and all those ? 
I'm sure Lalla was a most estimable, virtuous young 
person, or else Moore told some awful fibs," says 
Miss Brabazon. 

Kath, a slim, dainty, white-robed Hebe, worthy 
cup-bearer of the gods she appears, this hot after- 
noon. Trailing her pretty lace-edged skirts hither 
and thither, unconsciously dragging back and forth 
in her wake a number of crackling twigs and sweet, 
dead, dry leaves which the blustering winds of 
March have torn, swept from their lofty abiding- 
place, and which the gardener, grown gray and lazy 
in the service of Castlewalls, taking advantage of 
the present slack system of affairs now sadly neg- 
lects — and now they have become captives, swirl- 
ing, imprisoned beneath the folds of her long gown. 



120 Black Butterflies 

" My regret is keen," laughs Guy Erlynde, " but 
unfortunately, Kath, I have slighted, missed Persia 
in my rambles, so know scarcely anything pertaining 
to its houris ; therefore cannot, much as I would like 
to, enlighten you upon the subject. But I assure 
you," earnestly, " you've got a mistaken idea of 
Emoclew ; he is a thorough European and dresses as 
such, merely wearing the habiliments of his country 
when the whim occasionally seizes him. I'll vouch 
that you'll find him a polished, intelligent, cultured 
gentleman." 

" Thank goodness ; " cries Mrs. Lighton-Stry- 
ker, heaving a sigh of relief, followed by — 

" How provoking ! " from Kath Brabazon. " Here 
is disappointment, with a vengeance; I had pictured 
him in my mind's eye so entirely different — quite 
romantically heathenish, and " 

" We understand," interposes Dacre who is in- 
dustriously making a sketch of Mrs. Demaris' pro- 
file, " A Byronic Corsair sort of chap, eh ? A stern, 
dark chief, with a ' laughing devil in his sneer,' 
who would make you toe the mark and bear you, 
willy-nilly, away at nidnight, and hoisting a blood- 
red flag upon the topmost peak of his ship carry 
you, an unwilling — or, which would it be? — a will- 
ing? — bride, to some lonely cave or far-off pirate's 
isle — zounds ! " 

For now Kath, who has dipped the tips of her 
slender fingers into the marble basin of the fountain 



Black Butterflies 121 

— musically tossing, spurting its many tiny sprays 
in a myriad of brilliant colors — angrily dashes them 
into the speaker's face, instantly checking further 
speech and sprinkling, blurring the cleverly-drawn 
outlines of the sketch spread upon his knee. 

"There!" laughing ruefully, brushing the drops 
from his face. " There ! all my trouble gone for 
nothing," tearing the paper in twain and across. 

" Trouble," yawns Invorarity, rolling about in the 
grass like a half-grown puppy and now sitting up- 
right to take aim with the end of his cigar at a near- 
by vine-wreathed, weather-stained statue of Bacchus, 
" Faith ! trouble is simply knots tied in the rope of 
Life, against which that tiresome, grim, clumsy old 
woman, Sorrow, forever trips, stubs her ugly toe; 
but which happy, sly Miss Don't Care so adroitly 
manages to avoid, skips across with the ease, agility 
of a professional premiere danseuse." 

" Dear, sensible Miss Don't Care," answers Mrs, 
Demaris, with that peculiar, pleasing drawl of hers. 
" What a delightful version of trouble you give us. 
Mr. Invorarity. How I should like to learn a few 
of her wonderful steps ! " 

Lalage Demaris is a charming symphony in dull 
gray mull whose soft, clinging folds disclose the 
noble outlines of her magnificent figure to perfec- 
tion, and relieved by no other color save a creamy 
half-blown rose which some freakish impulse has 
urged her to slip inside the collar of her gown, 



122 Black Butterflies 

where it sways restlessly on its extremely long stem, 
nestling one moment beside her small curved ear, 
creeping stealthily, with every alternate breeze, to 
kiss her throat, bending backward with crazy, acro- 
batic movement, knocking against her sloping shoul- 
der; upward again, dipping into the deep, cool 
depths of the bewitching dimples in her cheek, 
caressing the dainty, curved corners of her mouth, 
mingling, coquetting with the short tendrils of her 
wonderful, tawny hair growing so low, luxuriantly 
upon the beautiful white nape; anon, reaching 
madly, striving anxious to scan, explore, the divine 
mysteries of her sweet, warm bosom. 

" How handsome Mrs. Demaris is," says Kath 
Brabazon, handing Erlynde a cup of tea. " I don't 
think I ever saw her look quite so beautiful before." 

" She is glorious," answers he. And then, as a 
sudden meteoric spark rudely pierces, illuminating 
the dense shadows in his brain with a queer, distinct 
perception, a groan escapes his lips. He sets down 
the teacup in dismay. This, then, explains fully 
why his heart was now fast losing its past agitating 
desolation. Oh, fool! not to have known, realized 
it sooner. Fool ! Thrice — ten thousand times fool — 
to expect, dare look upon the sun without being 
dazzled, blinded by its fiery rays ! 

And then an overwhelming shame for his hateful 
hideousness overcomes, possesses him. Dumb with 
misery he gazes, scans the different forms of the 



Black Butterflies 123 



men present; all, every one of them, handsome, 
strong, straight-limbed fellows, himself the sole 
wretched exception. 

Guy Erlynde had always deplored his deformity, 
but never, not until this moment, had it over- 
whelmed him with such helpless, swift, brutal force, 
when he knows, feels himself the one solitary blot 
amongst this otherwise perfect scene and surround- 
ings; and the cruel knowledge, horror — of it, con- 
founds him completely. He longs to crawl, creep 
away — hide — cover himself, his miserable despair, 
from every human eye — A sudden yearning for his 
mother — that scarce-remembered mother lost in 
early childhood — now assails him. He longs to lay 
his head upon her knee, to cry, sob out the sorrow 
of his breaking heart in childish tears, for comfort, 
against her tender breast. 

Then a sudden fear that someone — she — will dis- 
cover his secret, frightens him, filling him with a 
terrible dread — this agonizing secret, which the 
slightest word, movement, act will surely disclose, 
must be guarded with his life. He remembers with 
terror how only one short hour previous he had pre- 
sented her with that selfsame rose now blowing 
against her lips; and again, the taunting remem- 
brance of the night before, when, in the conserva- 
tory, he had rashly taken her hand, straying amid 
the dark green leaves of the camellia bush, and car- 
ried it to his lips, and an unutterable loathing for 



124 Black Butterflies 

himself consumes, scourges his whole being. The 
one thing paramount now is flight — instant flight. 
He starts violently — Kath is speaking again. 

" You must buckle on your strongest armor, dear 
boy, for aside from being so very lovely, Mrs. De- 
maris is also most fascinating. Val Hume solemnly 
declares her the most beautiful woman he has ever 
seen, and he is considered quite a connoisseur on 
that subject, you know. 

" What a very queer idea," continues Miss Bra- 
bazon, musingly, " to tuck that rose where she has. 
If I should wear a flower sticking, bobbing against 
my neck in that fashion, I'd appear a regular gawk ; 
but she," generously, " is always charming, and can 
easily do and wear things which no one else would 
think of nor dare to." 

" I — I — " hesitatingly — " think you mentioned 
something about Julian caring for her." 

" Yes," Kath nods. " Oh, yes, every one knows 
that." 

" And — " fearing to utter the question which is 
burning his lips — " and she ? Does Mrs. Demaris 
seem to reciprocate the attachment ? " 

" Why not?" carelessly. "Isn't he an Adonis 
and a Don Juan combined, rolled into one " 

The words sting him. 

" They may marry now. I heard for a certainty 
that the engagement between him and Miss Yarrow 
is broken off entirely. Margaret gave him his conge 



Black Butterflies 125 

over a week ago. He has behaved satirically nasty 
ever since," a remembrance of that little speech re- 
garding Corsairs suddenly crossing her mind. " I 
don't like Dacre in a cynical mood, do you? Cynics 
are such horrid, disagreeable people." 

" Such as Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, for instance," 
answers Erlynde, striving to appear his natural self. 
He is in a critical situation — a situation that is mak- 
ing prodigious demands upon his strength, wit and 
coolness. 

" The only obstacle to their marriage," muses 
Kath, " would be his lack of riches. I told you, 
don't you remember? that if she marries again, the 
general opinion is she will lose her wealth." 

" That would be a trifling impediment, surely, if 
they truly love one another." 

" Maybe not, but there always remains an ' if.' 
There can't be much doubt about Dacre's regard for 
Mrs. Demaris — at least it was too plainly evident 
a week or so ago and I presume it still exists — but 
she — there's the rub! I really don't think Lalage 
Demaris returns those tender feelings quite so 
deeply. The love is certainly, as I take it, a teeny- 
weeny bit one-sided." 

At this remark, Erlynde's heart gives a convulsive 
throb against his side, only to sink lower and with 
greater pain, if that were possible. This deluded 
heart unwittingly hearkened, under the guise of an- 
gelic, melodious voices foolishly listened, to a siren's 



126 Black Butterflies 

song. Now that song has merged into a low, sullen 
voice of impending danger, distant, rumbling thun- 
der, which has rudely awakened him from slumber — 
and his delightful, impossible dream — harshly dis- 
closing the coarse realization, this mocking demon in 
his brain. 

He loves her, and his love is utterly hopeless. 
Alas ! If he had been warned in time ; not blinded — 
willfully, persistently blinded — by those cruel Fates, 
he would have known, understood how to parry, 
avoid their treacherous attacks; thus saved himself 
this inevitable wrench, and remained at peace. 

"Oh, fool!" he mentally groans, "Why did I 
forget that I am not like other men? Why was I 
not content with my studies and books which God in 
His wisdom has provided for my loneliness and con- 
solation? Nothing else is fitted, permitted me." 
And yet right well he knows those same volumes of 
philosophy will teach him now and for ever more 
nothing but despair. 

Hitherto the peculiar hardship of his lot had, in- 
deed, frequently shamed, annoyed Erlynde; but that 
annoyance could never equal the wild suffering of 
today — today, when he is forced, compelled with un- 
speakable anguish, to crush, uproot that love which 
has become firmly planted in his heart ; and the usual 
cowardly remedy, flight, which had at first suggested 
itself, offers him no consolation, merely a weary 
prospect of unpredestinated, everlasting pain. 



Black Butterflies 127 

Why — why is he so afflicted? So severely pun- 
ished? A rebellious misery floods his soul, slowly 
succeeded by fierce, unholy anger which sweeps over 
him; a blinding, furious rage against the creative 
power which has, out of sport or mischievousness, 
fashioned him so grotesquely ; followed by wild, bit- 
ter, unreasonable hatred toward that mother whose 
memory he is now tempted to curse for giving his 
distorted body to the world, and who is responsible, 
blamable for his existence. 

A prowling devil seems to have taken, assumed 
full possession of his brooding soul, and refuses to 
be subdued, hidden. The expression on his face 
shocks Miss Brabazon. It is surely a revelation of 
something dreadful — some terrible suffering. 

" Are you ill, Guy? You do look so strange." 

" No, it is nothing." Her touch upon his arm 
awakens him with a sudden shock to the present. 
He glances around in alarmed apprehension. Has 
his emotional frenzy been observed, commented on 
by any other save Kath? No! He heaves a sigh 
of relief. Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, the lynx-eyed, is 
carrying on a desultory conversation with her crony, 
Jane Carew. Vivian Hyde, in close proximity as 
usual, is placidly, in pleased anticipation, poising his 
spoon preparatory to swoop, dip into a saucer of lus- 
cious crimson strawberries, tipped with their summit 
of snowy cream. 

Dacre has busily resumed his sketch of Mrs. De- 



128 Black Butterflies 



maris, who, thank heaven, is apparently asleep, her 
head resting against the trunk of a lilac bush. Peg- 
gie Padelford and Teddy Stryker are bending over, 
intently engrossed with some book. Hume and In- 
vorarity are both stretched full length, their hands 
clasped beneath their heads, blinking skyward. Joan 
Nettleton (who has returned from her hurried trip 
to London), seated somewhat apart, is deeply ab- 
sorbed with a miniature deck of cards, in the game 
of solitaire. 

Trixie has waived the duties of hostess, this after- 
noon, in favor of Miss Brabazon, who assumes the 
role right royally. Mrs. Fairfax and Rosamond 
Arbuthnot have remained indoors to write, and 
Trevor is nowhere visible. 

" It is nothing," laughs he. " I would merely beg 
you, my dear Kath," holding his cup toward her, 
" to please refill this cup with a little more nectar." 

" With pleasure, if " ruefully — " if Vivian 

has spared any." 

A soft, riotous little breeze has arisen and is 
sweeping gaily, rakishly about, taking unwarranted 
liberties with Mrs. Lighton-Stryker's flounces, and 
committing sundry depredations toward others, cast- 
ing the spray from the fountain in various different 
directions. A few drops alight, spatter upon In- 
vorarity's nose, causing him to shift lazily a trifle 
further away. 

Suddenly Lalage, awakened from her nap, springs 



Black Butterflies 129 

light as a whiff of thistledown to her feet, her rapid 
movement disclosing a glint of dainty gray satin 
slippers and a suggestion of silken hose of the same 
identical color. She stands upright for a second, 
stretching her long arms above her head, then with 
lithe, easy grace moves away. 

Erlynde follows her retreating form hungrily 
with his eyes. At her approach several stately pea- 
cocks, stalking majestically about, take fright and 
race swiftly across the crisp sward, uttering loud, 
harsh, discordant cries of alarm. On she goes, past 
the laurel trees, studded with their bright yellow 
flowers — not brighter than her shining hair; past a 
graceful marble Diana she strolls, lingering, turning 
for one moment under the pink, white and red blos- 
soming oleander trees, to wave an adieu, and then 
vanishing, like a fire-tipped spiral column of smoke, 
into the distance. 

" Where on earth is she off to now ? " snaps the 
gentle Priscilla, with an extra degree of asperity in 
her voice, pausing from her talk to note Erlynde's 
straying glance, and the cause. 

" Don't know, I'm sure," replies Invorarity. 
" Didn't think to ask her." 

" She has gone to gather violets," says Kath. " I 
heard Paolo tell her this morning that there were 
some extremely large white ones growing behind the 
hedge of rhododendrons near the coppice." 

"Oh, indeed!" retorts Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, 



130 Black Butterflies 

twirling her eye-glasses around by their string be- 
tween her thumb and forefinger. 

This strongly-emphasized exclamation, plainly 
conveying the hint of a possible rendezvous, is fol- 
lowed by a snickering little " tehee " from Mrs. 
Carew, which causes Miss Brabazon to turn squarely 
around and look at the speaker, who really has the 
grace to droop her pale blue eyes for an instant be- 
neath their short, ashy lashes. 

" I think," says Mr. Invorarity, manfully striving 
to ignite a match (which stubbornly refuses all ef- 
forts) by scraping it against the moist base of the 
fountain, " I think, more likely," casting the useless 
lucifer away in disgust and substituting another 
which he lights by striking against Hume's heel, 
and holding it to the tip of his cigar — " I really 
think," puffing placidly, " that Mrs. Demaris has 
gone to chase butterflies, strip them of their gos- 
samer wings. I'm sure," with a sly glance and wink 
toward Miss Brabazon, " they would make a charm- 
ing garment, and transparent enough to suit the 
most fastidious. Don't you think so, Mrs. Stry- 
ker?" 

" Now, once for all, have done with that gossamer, 
transparent foolishness," snaps that lady. " I de- 
spise and am heartily sick and tired of the subject; it 
is abhorrent to me." 

" Ah, yes, naturally — to you" answers Miss Bra- 
bazon, with a wicked tilt of her small retrousse nose 



Bla'ck Butterflies 131 

and a meaning glance of survey which takes in all 
Mrs. Stryker's little defects — bony shoulders, 
scrawny neck and arms, hollow chest. " Yes, I un- 
derstand your objections, my dear Mrs. Stryker," 
sweetly, " and certainly, under the circumstances, it 
is not to be wondered at." 

To this speech Priscilla Stryker does not reply; 
her sallow cheeks merely burn with a sullen, dull 
red glow of passion, whilst she sets her lips, if pos- 
sible tighter together, mentally vowing vengeance 
with interest upon the very first available opportu- 
nity. She sits in sulky silence which nothing except 
a sharp, quick rifle report from the direction of the 
preserves (indicating thereby that Grosvenor, Barn- 
aby, Desmond and several others are still keenly 
in quest of pheasants) breaks. 

" Phew! Now she's in a wax! " chuckles Hume. 
" Sure as you're born, she's in a beastly wax." 

" You know, my Friends, with what a brave Carouse 
I made a second marriage in my house ; 

Divorced old barren Reason from my Bed, 
And took the Daughter of the Vine to Spouse." 



" Edward ! " Mrs. Stryker places the pince-nez 
firmly across her nose, for that meddlesome, frolic- 
ing zephyr, still hovering slyly about, furtively 
watching, awaiting a favorable chance to commit 
other petty peccadillos, has now stolen the present 
opportune moment to waft these lines, uttered in 
Teddy's well-known voice, directly to every ear, par- 



132 Black Butterflies 

ticularly those of his wife, who instantly rears her 
head, sniffing the air like a war horse at the first 
smell of battle. 

" Listen ! now she's going to take her spite out on 
poor Teddy," says Kath, sotto voce. " Frumpy old 
thing! I can't help feeling savage toward her." 

" I think that allusion to divorce gave her a turn 
— frightened her a bit, I'll wager," answers Invorar- 
ity. "And serve her jolly well right, too. 
Hush " 

" Edward ! " sharply repeats Edward's spouse, 
" What rubbish is that you are reading, I'd like to 
know ? " 

" The Rubaiyat," shortly returns Teddy, who 
seemingly pays small heed to his wife's peremptory 
tones. 

" The Ruby — what? " exclaims she. 

" It is the verses of Omar Khayyam, a Persian 
poet," meekly explains Peggie Padelford, " entitled 
' the Rubaiyat' " 

" Ruby — rot ! " snorts Priscilla Stryker. " I'm 
surprised at you, Edward. Are you lost to all sense 
of decency ? " 

At this scathing reprimand Teddy simply shrugs 
his shoulders good-naturedly. 

" Now," growls Vivian, pausing from his straw- 
berries, " Now, Priscilla, for goodness' sake don't 
get cranky." 

" What a vixen," whispers Hume. " By Jove! I 



Black Butterflies 133 

don't understand how Teddy keeps his temper; 
seems to me if I were afflicted with such a shrew I'd 
be tempted to try the remedy of the ducking-pond or 
whipping-post.' , 

" Oh, no, no; surely not that? " laughs Miss Bra- 
bazon, " though I'll allow she's horrid bad form — 
with Vivian dangling at her apron strings — and 
worse still, is never content unless she is hurting 
some one's (especially a woman's) feelings." 

" Yes, I've noticed she's always pleasant and con- 
ciliatory to my sex," says Hume, " but hard as nails 
on her own." 

Some mystic influence, magic power, or what you 
mortals will, now causes, prompts Erlynde and 
Dacre, who have remained mute, uninterested spec- 
tators during the foregoing controversy, to simul- 
taneously lift their eyes, as Lalage is dimly discern- 
ible, emerging from the space of shadowy old trees, 
rocking, swaying, stately as a full-masted ship, 
slowly moving with imperial grace, near, nearer, un- 
til at last she stands like an empress — a wind-kissed, 
storm-tossed empress, 'tis true — within their midst, 
her arms and hands filled, overflowing, with waxy 
white violets which emit a delicate, delicious fra- 
grance. 

" Naughty truant ! " cries Brabazon, playfully 
shaking a slender forefinger, " Come, give an ac- 
count of yourself." 

" Pray let this speak for me, dear," replies Mrs. 



134 Black Butterflies 

Demaris, selecting, shaking free from its fellows a 
single exquisite white blossom, which she lovingly 
inserts among the girl's glossy jet tresses, then moves 
languidly toward her former seat. 

In passing, the rosebud, unnoticed, falls from her 
neck, which that selfsame saucy breeze pounces upon, 
catching, tossing it recklessly about, whirling it fin- 
ally to Erlynde's side, who watches it as devouringly 
as a cat would a mouse, covertly intending, un- 
noticed, to possess it. But alas ! that wind, so fickle, 
immediately snatches, reclaims and flings it uncere- 
moniously upon Dacre's knee, and he, guided, as- 
sisted by those uncanny Fates, aimless, indifferent, 
picks it up, pinning it carelessly against his heart. 
A depressing omen for Guy Erlynde, surely, who 
notes it with the chill of death, a pathetic glance, 
like the dull, sad, glazed gaze of some dying dumb 
animal in mortal pain. 

" Ugh'! "* fretfully grumbles Mrs. Lighton-Stry- 
ker. " Please hand me your salts, Jane. The odious 
scent of violets always sickens me. Such a common, 
vulgar, plebeian odor — don't you know." 

" Nice sort of little flower, the violet," interposes 
Dacre, who has overheard that lady's rude remark. 
" If it were the lilac, now," with a swift glance of ir- 
ritation directed to the pretty, unoffending lilac tree, 
heavily abloom with its dainty plume-like blossoms ; 
and a fleeting retrospection, a haunting memory of a 
slender, fair, proud young girl, with a bunch of dark 



Black Butterflies 135 

lilacs tucked loosely within her snowy belt, the petals 
falling thickly in a purple mass, sprinkling her hands 
and knees, obtrudes itself. " If it were the lilac, 
now, I'd agree with you. Always did draw the line 
at a lilac — only flower I really object to; so — so 
beastly suggestive of — of — deceit." 

" Why, Julian ! " answers Mrs. Demaris, with up- 
lifted brows, pausing from her task of industriously 
assorting the violets on her lap. " What a very vac- 
illating person you are. It was only a short time 
since that you distinctively stated your preference for 
the lilac above all flowers." 

" No," shaking his head decidedly. " You're mis- 
taken, I assure you. My favorite flower is — " look- 
ing desperately about and, happily chancing in his 
quandary to glance over his shoulder his eyes alight 
upon a cluster of scarlet poppies growing near. " My 
favorite flower is, and always has been," triumph- 
antly, " the poppy." * « 

" Tut," says Miss Brabazon. " I'll substantiate 
Mrs. Demaris' assertion. I've heard you positively 
declare your allegiance to the lilac a score of times 
and tearfully deplore the fact of its season being so 
short. Deny it if you dare." 

" Wrong," bravely, stubbornly standing by his 
guns, " my dear Kath, entirely wrong, I assure you. 
As I've already solemnly sworn, my favorite is the 
— the — " floundering hopelessly again, and, unfor- 
tunately this time, turning, looking over the wrong 



136 Black Butterflies 

shoulder in a different direction to where an im- 
mense row of golden sunflowers bend, nodding, 
courtesying on their long green stalks — " As I said 
before, and repeatedly maintain, my choice is the 
sunflower," enthusiastically, " handsomest, truest, 
most exemplary thing that grows, by Jove ! " 

" How very aesthetic," jeers Kath, mockingly. 
" I've half a notion to gather one for you," making 
a pretended movement toward them, " and compel 
you to wear it in your buttonhole all during dinner." 

"No, no!" At this dire threat Dacre winces; 
sunflowers, in truth, being his especial abhorrence. 
" No, no! " imploringly, " not now. See! " a happy 
thought striking him, " See," tapping the rose upon 
his coat, I would not be so ungallant as to slight 
this." 

" Bless my stars ! " cries Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, 
on her feet in an instant, as Desmond, Barnaby and 
Grosvenor appear, and the stable clock, in brazen, 
clarion tones, rings out the half hour after six. 
" Bless my stars ! whoever thought it was so late ! " 

" I'll race you both to the entrance," says Invorar- 
ity, looking from Miss Brabazon to Peggie Padel- 
ford, who are standing near, with arms entwined. 
" Come, is it a go? " 

At the word " race," Joan Nettleton, instantly on 
the alert, thrusts her cards into some mysterious re- 
cess of her gown and comes forward to join the 
group about the contestants. 



Black Butterflies 137 

" Oh, yes, yes ! " cry the two girls, clapping their 
hands gleefully ! " and let Joan be the judge." 

" All right," agrees Mrs. Nettleton, briskly en- 
tering into the proposition. "I'll enter Dacre and 
Desmond and make it a three-quarter mile heat." 
lapsing into the language of the turf. " Three- 
quarter, mind; not to the entrance, though — that's 
up hill ; too hard running. Better make it from here, 
around the Diana yonder — nice level ground — and 
back three times, eh ? " 

" Good ! " cry a chorus of voices. " Splendid 
idea!" 

The excitement immediately becomes contagious; 
even the staid Priscilla joins in right heartily. 

" What are the odds? " asks Chatwin, producing 
note-book and pencil in a business-like way. 

" What'll you offer?" queries Joan, above the 
confused babble of voices. " Ten to one on Invorar- 
ity — ten to one on Invorarity ! Four to one on Des- 
mond — two to one on Padelford ! Three to one on 
Brabazon ! Five to one on Dacre ! Who'll you take ? 
Ten to one on Invorarity — two to one on Padelford 
— three to one on Brabazon. Or, take the field, take 
the field — bar none! " 

" I'll take the field," promptly interpolates Lalage 
Demaris. 

" And so will I/' screams Mrs. Stryker. " But be 
sure it's bar none." 

" Padelford," promptly decided Teddy Stryker, 



138 Black Butterflies 

swiftly, impartially sizing up Peggie's willowy, At- 
lanta-like form. 

" Padelford ! " echoes Chatwin. 

" Brabazon ! " spontaneously cry Erlynde and 
Hume, the latter a bit dubiously, however, noting 
Kath's unmistakably heavier weight over her other 
fair opponent. 

" Invorarity," says Vivian Hyde, shortly. " Sur- 
est thing in the whole bunch." For Invorarity cer- 
tainly does display excellent racing qualities. 

While this preliminary hubbub goes on, the con- 
testants stand quietly huddled together, Kath and 
Peggie with uplifted skirts, alert, anxiously awaiting 
Mrs. Nettleton's signal, which is soon given. 

" Here ! " authoritatively to Desmond, who is un- 
gallantly edging a trifle in advance of Kath Bra- 
bazon. " Stand closer together — so ; no fudging, 
remember. Now — one, two, three — oft" ! " 

Away they rush, Invorarity's long legs five lengths 
in the lead, Kath second, Desmond third, Dacre 
fourth and poor Peggie trailing far, far in the rear. 
On they speed — past the statue of Bacchus and the 
laurel tree. Hurrah ! Invorarity has safely reached, 
rounded, the Diana, Kath closely following. Down 
the homestretch they fly with the speed of reindeers, 
Dacre third, Desmond fourth. 

" Brabazon ! Brabazon ! " they yell. " Come on, 
Brabazon ! " as Invorarity and Kath sail by. Off they 



Black Butterflies 139 

go — leaving the cheering mob behind. On dashes 
Invorarity, Kath steadily at his heels. 

Attracted by the uproar, Trixie Fairfax and Rosa- 
mond Arbuthnot lean from the drawing-room win- 
dows, while the servants, male and female, crowd, 
flock about the lower portion of the house, shouting, 
yelling madly, waving aprons, caps, towels — any- 
thing within reach. Even tiny Bobs, in her nurse's 
arms, frantically brandishes a doll. 

Another lightning-like turn of the statue, and 
Brabazon, Invorarity, neck and neck, whirl past the 
frenzied mob, close pressed by Dacre, Desmond 
showing unmistakable signs of fatigue. Kath is also 
slowly losing ground — Dacre passes her. And now 
a most wonderful, unlooked-for thing occurs — for 
game little Padleford, who has been almost forgot- 
ten, steadily gains — reaches — passes — Brabazon, 
who is now almost out of the running. 

On comes Peggie — almost up to Invorarity — ha! 
— past him 1 — easily; on — on — skimming down the 
homestretch light as a lapwing, her skirts held high 
in both hands, entirely heedless, unconscious of her 
pretty feet and prettier ankles. " Hurrah ! " the 
spectators are cheering, shouting, yelling, howling, 
like a small Bedlam let loose. 

Lalage waves her handkerchief hysterically, com- 
pletely forgetting the violets, which lie tumbled, 
strewn about her feet, like snow-drifts. 

" Padelford ! Padelford ! " screech, howl the 
mingled voices. 



140 Black Butterflies 

" Padelford ! " yells Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, lost to 
all decorum, flinging her glasses and heels high in 
the air, as Peggie, pale, cool, not a hair turned, darts 
up to Joan Nettelton a length and a half the winner. 

Invorarity, puffing, perspiring — second; Dacre 
and Desmond third and fourth, while Kath, red as a 
peony, with hair disheveled, limps crossly in, a sorry 
fifth. 

" Well done, Peg ! " says Teddy, admiringly, pat- 
ting the girl's shoulder. " You're a regular thor- 
oughbred, and no mistake." 

" Yes," acquiesces Mrs. Nettleton. " Finest race 
I ever witnessed." 

While Miss Padelford stands demurely, receiving 
her honors modestly, the stable clock once more 
clangs out the half hour, and there is a general stam- 
pede as they all troop off — in pairs, singly, or in 
groups — to hurriedly dress for dinner. 



XI 



" Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, 

Its chambers desolate, and portals foul : 

Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, 

The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul." 

" You are a soulless sort of person ! " 

"And why?" asks Mr. Invorarity, turning to Mrs. 
Demaris. " Why do you term me soulless? " 

" Well," answers Lalage, haven't you just scoffed 
at — ridiculed — genius ? " 

" Ridicule ! Scoff ! nay, far from it ; I merely pro- 
claim genius and talent nothing more nor less than 
superfluous imagination and energy wasted — and I 
repeat that statement. What is the use of that pe- 
culiar inborn power of mind, those mental gifts 
called genius — Wait, pray allow me to finish," as a 
chorus of indignant voices arise in protest — " tell me, 
what compensation recompenses Fame for its 
mockery? " 

"Mockery?" 

" Aye, mockery ! Mockery, to know your fairest, 
fondest thoughts, which have crept, nestled in your 
brain and heart, cherished, evasive fancies, dreaming 
and waking, have vaguely haunted, fretted, tanta- 
lizingly eluded you from earliest youth, until — joy! 

141 



142 Black Butterflies 

— finally you by untiring patience at last grasp, cap- 
ture, for no other purpose, alas ! than to have those 
treasured ideas, sentiments, hitherto so jealously 
guarded, locked within your being, paraded brazenly, 
cheapened, wantonly treated. 

" The sweetest ballad ever written will soon be 
caught, worn threadbare, devoured by ghouls. 
What remuneration — certainly nothing of a lucra- 
tive character — can requite that author to listen, 
hear his loved song (inspired, perhaps, by some 
pure, sacred, dead memory), squalled, perchance, in 
the lowest music hall, by some painted, abandoned 
creature, her vile lips reeking with the foul fumes of 
grog and tobacco ! What reimbursement can a pal- 
try laurel-wreath offer? Will it sustain, deafen the 
mighty composer's ears — prevent him hearkening to 
his sublime music hawked about, groaned out on 
every street corner to the harsh, discordant notes of 
a hurdy-gurdy? Or reconcile the artist to behold 
his masterpiece — over which he has toiled, tormented 
with hopes and fears, late and early — instantly 
copied ; see it strewn indiscriminately, promiscuously 
around in cheap prints, to adorn the dingy walls of 
every alternate inn, rum-shop in the universe, as " — 
(pointing to the large, unframed picture entitled 
"Rose-Doomed" resting upon an easel in Dacre's 
studio, awaiting shipment to London, and before 
which all are crowded — held spellbound) " as its 
fate surely will be ? " 



Black Butterflies 143 

The painting — for reason of its wonderful execu- 
tion, poses and originality, so delightful to look upon 
— shows the light-subdued interior of an immense 
banquet hall at the conclusion of a Roman feast, 
where several unfortunates, by the whim — command 
— of half-crazed, treacherous Nero, for some tri- 
fling, imaginary offense (or, mayhap, no offense 
whatever), possibly the wretched victims of that 
whimsical, mirth-loving monarch's grewsome, se- 
rious little jokes inspired by the same spirit, doubt- 
less, which prompted him to make a bonfire of Rome 
(for which innocent diversions he was so famed and 
so delighted in) are seemingly trapped, condemned, 
awaiting that frightful death by falling rose leaves. 

At the gloomiest, farthest end of the room are 
huddled a panic-stricken, flower-crowned group of 
men and women. At a corner of the table — the only 
portion visible — a solitary reveler, his wreath-twined 
head thrown backward, reclines, one arm flung care- 
lessly over the side of his couch, a silver goblet with 
the blood-hued wine spilling from it still clutched in 
his nerveless hand — blissfully oblivious to his im- 
pending fate. Each figure in its varied, dark, som- 
bre coloring is a superb gem, yet all the surpassing 
beauty, bizarre grandeur of the whole, entire scene 
of that long-past Neronian era, is concentrated in the 
central, principal figure, a woman majestically, un- 
earthly beautiful, remarkably tall, symmetrically 
formed, clad in a loose, long robe of purple from be- 



144 Black Butterflies 

neath whose folds protrudes one slim, arched, san- 
daled foot. Heavy, barbaric golden bands encircle 
her slender wrists and glorious, outstretched white 
arms. A narrow shaft of light, streaming from one 
of the massive, swaying lamps, strikes the dark 
depths of her red-bronze hair, turning it to saffron. 
But the chief charm of the painting is the baffling, 
indescribable expression of the face which a master- 
hand has, with miraculous, unerring skill, safely 
caught, and pinned to the canvas — an expression of 
amazement, terror, anger blended, whose secret 
rests, lies in those mysterious eyes, silvery-gray as 
a sullen winter's sky, or deep, darkly green as the 
fern-fringed forest pools; anon, sultry-black as 
Egypt's night — uplifted, now, to the grim, sinister, 
cruel faces peering in derision from above, their 
merciless fingers casting handfuls of rose petals, 
which descend in a scattered, feathery mass, flecking 
her unbound hair, bare arms and snowy bosom in a 
variegated shower of crimson, pink, yellow and 
white, withal so pretty, dainty, frail appearing, des- 
tined soon to smother, crush, stamp out her strong, 
warm, young life. 

" Did you ever see anything half so beautiful? " 
cry Miss Brabazon and Peggie, in ecstasies. 

" Yes," answers Hume, furtively glancing toward 
the lovely original, who stands mutely contemplating 
her pictured counterpart. "Yes, far more beauti- 
ful." 



Black Butterflies 145 

" To my mind, it is perfection," is Trevor's ver- 
dict. " Those eyes — those wonderful eyes ! " 

" It is unquestionably a really marvelous, clever 
piece of work," says Invorarity. " I prophesy that 
this, your latest, old chap, will be no end of a sensa- 
tion — a howling success in the world of Art, safe to 
win the Royal Academic Gold Medal — no fear on 
that score. Yet, despite its beauty and merit, ' Rose- 
Doomed' can't escape its unavertible fate." 

" Your words are a horrible warning to Ambi- 
tion," answers Dacre. " Still, you are right — right 
as a trivet — on that point." 

" Pooh ! ' Put money in thy purse,' " quotes Tre- 
vor, " and let Fame go hang." 

" Self-conceit dominates the human animal," 
laughs Julian Dacre, somewhat ruefully, " and I con- 
fess Invorarity has put a pretty strong spoke in my 
wheel of conceit this morning." 

" Pay no heed to that, dear boy," says Trixie Fair- 
fax, laying a dimpled hand affectionately upon her 
brother's shoulder. 

" I freely coincide with Mr. Invorarity," cries 
Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, resplendent, gorgeous as a 
Cape parrot, in a stately crimson gown, a wall-flower 
fastened artistically amid her ashy locks, " I freely 
coincide with Mr. Invorarity — Fame isn't tanta- 
mount to the troubles, petty annoyances which in- 
variably follow in its wake." 

" And you, having climbed the dizzy ladder," 



146 Black Butterflies 

answers Invorarity, with thinly-veiled sarcasm, 
" therefore are an authority upon the subject, dear 
Mrs. Stryker." 

" Ah," sighing with a doleful head-shake in a lack- 
adaisical, insinuating manner intended to convey the 
impression that Fame is not all beer and skittles — 
" Ah ! Renown — Celebrity ! " painfully affecting 
grandiloquence — " What is it ? Naught but a hol- 
low, empty soap-bubble, enchantingly beautiful, 'tis 
true, with its sparkling rainbow hues, but alas ! con- 
taining nothing for the possessor; devoid of hap- 
piness, contentment, love, home ; nor tender touch of 
clinging baby fingers." 

" Faugh ! Much she knows about it," snickers 
Miss Brabazon, aside, to Guy Erlynde and Valentine 
Hume — " or ' baby fingers,' either. She positively 
loathes children. Why, it was only yesterday, she 
yelled like a Red Indian because poor little Bobs ac- 
cidentally stepped on her toe, and afterward I dis- 
tinctly overheard her declaim to Mrs. Carew that she 
detested 'brats.' " 

" Very brilliant, original idea." Mrs. Stryker 
turns cordially toward Dacre. " I like your picture 
immensely," but unable to resist her habitual venom, 
" with the mere exception of the middle figure. 
Surely," reproachfully, " you could have chosen a 
more appropriate model ? " 

" Yourself, for instance," mutters Kath, with a 
grin. 



Black Butterflies 147 

" It is so — so — er — rather coarse, don't you 
know," continues the lady. " Big women nearly al- 
ways are," catching the chance and blessed oppor- 
tunity of administering punishment to Lalage, to- 
ward whom she, for some unknown reason (unless, 
indeed, it is jealousy of the other's beauty) is in- 
tensely hostile ; and, unfortunately happening at this 
moment to note Vivian's dull, heavy eyes suddenly 
aglow, lit with sincere admiration as he glances at 
Mrs. Demaris' pictured loveliness, it is a whip to 
scourge, goad her to madness; her pent-up malice 
bursting all bounds, betrays itself in uncontrollable, 
insulting asperity. Accordingly, she furiously at- 
tacks the inoffensive picture with bitter, sarcastic 
badinage, wholly regardless of good breeding and 
every result. " Heavens ! What carroty hair," 
sneers she, " and look' — look at her eyes, turned up 
like a dying duck — great, awkward creature! It 
will require a lot of rose petals to cover her. They 
ought to throw down a load of cabbage leaves or 
else she'll live to die of extreme old age." 

" Has she got through clacking ? " Hume turns 
with a stifled imprecation. " Despicable little cat ; 
how I'd like to wring her neck! " 

" You are a frank, if not amiable critic," smiles 
Lalage, entirely ignoring Priscilla Stryker's flagrant 
insolence — "both frank, just and witty." 

" Yes," supplements Dacre, an ominous frown 
gathering upon his usually serene forehead. " Yes, 



148 Black Butterflies 

you are extremely witty, Mrs. Stryker, and being an 
Englishwoman you should accept that as a rare com- 
pliment. The French and Irish," nodding toward 
Invorarity, " are, in my opinion, the only class who 
can honestly lay claim to witticism; Germany is 
hopelessly philosophical, and England is undoubted- 
ly the most prosaic, humdrum nation on the globe." 

" I care nothing — not a fig — for wit," snaps Mrs. 
Stryker, who is certainly in a truly villainous tem- 
per. " I admire, desire intellect, and England un- 
deniably takes the lead there." 

" Humph ! " Miss Brabazon nudges Erlynde. 
" Look ! She has got a wall-flower stuck behind her 
ear, and goes around impressing upon everybody's 
mind that it is her favorite flower. Just fancy, such 
idiotic, impossible taste, and then prate of intellect. 
I believe she only does it to be considered eccentric. 
Who could admire a wall-flower — bah! — common, 
stiff, ugly yellow things ! I'd as soon choose a pota- 
to blossom or buttercup." 

" Wall-flowers," answers Guy — " pray do allow 
the poor woman to cherish them, if she so disposes. 
Who knows? perhaps a kindred spirit unites them." 

" True," laughs the girl. " I never thought of 
that." 

And now Maggs comes to announce in injured 
tones the long-delayed luncheon, and they all troop 
off. 

" You were beastly, Priscilla," grunts Vivian, pre- 



Black Butterflies 149 

paring to fall upon a plate of sliced, golden pine- 
apple. " Downright beastly to that handsome Mrs. 
Demaris. 'Pon my word, it wouldn't have surprised 
me a particle if she'd soundly boxed your ears. You 
must be a little more circumspect, my dear ; it doesn't 
do to let your tongue run away with your brains." 

This is a remarkably long speech for Vivian, per- 
haps the longest on record, and almost takes Mrs. 
Stryker's breath away. She can put but one con- 
struction upon it, and that is, he is championing that 
hateful woman's cause. The thought is gall and 
wormwood. She manages to gasp — 

" Hold your tongue ! " 

Her advice is unnecessary, for Mr. Hyde's whole 
attention is now completely absorbed with the juicy 
pineapple ; so she turns in a huff to Jane Carew, who 
says fawningly : 

" I was so glad, dear, that you had the courage to 
take some of the wind out of her sails this morning. 
She is really quite too insufferable, with her un- 
bearable airs and graces; a few wholesome truths 
won't hurt her. Why the men rave over her I can't 
see. She is trying to make a conquest of that 
wretched Erlynde now, and has already fastened 
him securely to her chariot wheels. Yes," in answer 
to the other woman's incredulous, interrogative look, 
" yes, didn't you notice how very realistically he 
played Lanciotto to their (her and Dacre's) Fran- 
ceses and Paolo in the tableaux vivants last even- 



150 Black Butterflies 

ing? " The speaker shudders — " I vow, it made my 
blood run cold to see him scowling and glaring 
through those curtains — ugh ! " 

" Whew ! " Jane Carew makes a wry face and 
whistles beneath her breath. Their voices sink be- 
low the ceaseless chatter of prevailing small talk 
around them, as they both sweep a furtive glance to- 
ward Lalage, who, charming in a heliotrope-colored 
gown, looks if possible lovelier than ever, a mag- 
nificent gloire de Dijon rose nestling amid the mass 
of radiant hair thickly coiled loose in a rebellious 
halo about her imperial head bent slightly toward 
Erlynde as she listens graciously, with smiling lips, 
to his discourse. 

" There's not the slightest doubt," whispers Mrs. 
Stryker ; " I've noticed from the first, Erlynde's 
quite daft over her. His eyes follow her from pillar 
to post." 

" But — " queries Mrs. Carew, " they say now that 
Dacre's free — " 

" Stuff" and nonsense ! Should those two marry, 
they'd be as poor as church mice, and Lalage De- 
maris doesn't strike me as a woman to endure pov- 
erty. Trixie is terribly cut up over the estrange- 
ment with Miss Yarrow and her graceless brother, 
who, I verily believe, is the only thing on earth the 
vain, shallow little creature cares about." 

" She seems to have a sincere regard for Mrs. De- 
maris," muses Jane Carew. " Would it not, if she 



Black Butterflies 151 

suspected both brothers were smitten, interfere with 
their friendship? " 

" Not one whit, you innocent! for that, for- 
sooth ! " sneeringly, " is the very secret of Trixie's 
friendship. Her aim is simple. She desires, fully 
expects to make a match between her bosom friend 
and half-brother, Guy Erlynde." 

"Impossible!" in slightly raised, shocked tones. 
" He is—" 

" And," dryly, " the master of Castlewalls." 

" Still, wouldn't it be to Trixie's interest for him 
to remain single ? " 

" Jane, you are densely stupid ! Assuredly it 
would, but Trix is far-sighted. Erlynde, being 
enormously rich, despite his deformity may marry. 
Is it not wisest, then, for his sister to give him a 
wife of her own choosing? And who, pray, is more 
suited to the purpose than this woman, inordinately 
lazy, who'll gladly allow Mrs. Trixie to retain her 
present proud position? " 

" No sane person could imagine a marriage be- 
tween those two. It should be forbidden by law as 
sacrilegious." 

" Yet," smiles Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, with an in- 
different shoulder shrug, " mark my words — such a 
marriage will occur, or I'm no prophet." 

Will it? The Fates who sit crouched, winking 
knowingly behind each individual chair, forever dex- 
terously twisting, turning, tirelessly plying their 



152 Black Butterflies 

shuttles of many threads by which they toss, jerk, 
lead us helpless, blindly about at their mercy, will, 
pleasure — alone can answer. 



XII 

" The power of Thought — the magic of the Mind ! 
Link'd with success, assumed and kept with skill, 
That moulds another's weakness to its will." 

When Guy Erlynde first entered into possession of 
Castlewalls, this princely estate, he scarcely realized 
or duly appreciated the fact. Old Sir Vincent's 
death, though long expected, nevertheless came as a 
surprise, a sudden clap of thunder out of a calm, blue 
sky, which rudely disturbed, robbed him for the 
nonce of his hitherto undisputed, dearly-loved 
quietude, which, strange to say, he resented. 

For awhile his senses were dulled, his whole be- 
ing benumbed by the swift unreality of things, and 
the idea of assuming position, responsibilities alto- 
gether at variance with his timid nature, vexed, ap- 
palled him. Thus, without a thought or single 
word of protest, he passively allowed his half- 
brother and half-sister to attain full control of everv- 
thing, content to bury himself and burrow mole-like 
in his beloved, musty old books. 

Previous to this epoch, however, Erlynde's half- 
sister, Beatrice, had married Colonel Fairfax, who, 
visiting England on a three-months' furlough, 
straightway fell an easy victim to Trixie's artless, 

i53 



1^4 Black Butterflies 

infantile, pink-and-white prettiness — as army officers 
at any extremely susceptible age after their chilly 
blood, from a constant diet of fiery curry ( for which 
they seem to acquire a passionate taste), becomes 
highly inflammable — are often wont to do ; and was 
consequently rapidly beguiled, whirled ere he had a 
fair chance of escape, headlong into the seething tide 
of matrimony. And Trixie, a dainty, lovely bride, 
one week later accompanied her portly husband out 
to India. When old Hoggy Fairfax — as he was 
secretly dubbed by the subordinates universally for 
reason of his detestable characteristics, manners, re- 
semblance to the porker tribe — after six years of 
stormy wedded life — the Fates lightly shook the 
overweighted bough of Hoggy's existence, and he 
very thoughtfully, conveniently, died (the only 
thoughtful or convenient act ever known to his 
credit) leaving his widow with a two-year-old proof 
and pledge of conjugal bliss — Roberta — so chris- 
tened in courtesy to gallant Lord Roberts, then in 
India before he took a hand in the foolish, hurly- 
burly struggle in South Africa — the one man living 
whom Hoggy held in any kind of esteem. And 
from thence little Roberta's stately name soon de- 
generated into the more appropriate and loving so- 
briquet of her prototype, " Bobs," and she ruled with 
despotic sway, domineered imperiously over the sol- 
diers of her father's garrison and was by them idol- 
ized, willingly obeyed. 



Black Butterflies 155 

At Hoggy's death his relict (who, by the way, 
looked astonishingly well in crepe and bombazine) 
embarked with little Bobs on a P. and O. bound for 
England, where, after establishing herself in as com- 
fortable, pretentious quarters as her meagre income 
would permit, and being a woman of extremely 
frivolous nature to whom admiration was as breath 
to her nostrils, upon finding the irksome ties of mat- 
rimony broken, luckily severed by death instead of 
divorce, which undoubtedly (if current gossip can 
be credited) would have happened after that too ap- 
parent esclandre with gay Paul Dexter — the remem- 
brance of which even now fills Trixie's soul with 
trepidation — prepared forthwith to enjoy her free- 
dom to the utmost, for Gower street, albeit in an un- 
fashionable neighborhood, nevertheless afforded 
various advantages over, and was certainly prefer- 
able to, the humdrum, sleepy little Hill Station in 
India where latterly Colonel Fairfax's regiment had 
been stationed, and where Mrs. Fairfax, at the few 
social functions, disported her charms and held right 
of way. 

True, in her London establishment it was fre- 
quently nip and tuck to make both ends meet, but 
fortunately Trixie was diplomatic ; if her altered so- 
cial position disturbed her equanimity, the evidence 
was not discernible. During her late vicissitudes she 
had acquired, mastered, a vast amount of self-re- 
liance and happily became an adept at that most use- 



156 Black Butterflies 

ful, desirable art, tact, which freely enabled her to 
meet, successfully avert, many unpleasant obstacles 
which might unexpectedly arise. For instance, upon 
overhearing one of her bosom friends, after par- 
takingly lavishly of her hospitality, sneeringly call 
her " that Fairfax woman," she smiled sweetly, not 
a muscle quivered — at least not outwardly — and at 
the very first opportunity kissed her ungrateful 
traducer upon both cheeks, and adroitly turned the 
tables later by simply lying patiently in wait for that 
treacherous friend's husband to innocently impart a 
trifling confidence and — proofs, so cleverly and 
naively that the natural result was victory, whilst 
she, Trixie, the informer, was the very last to be 
suspected. So much wiser and infinitely more lady- 
like, complacently mused she, than to fly into a 
foolish, useless, vulgar passion, which invariably 
mars, accomplishes nothing. 

But now, after several months of fairly smooth 
sailing in those rock-strewn waters, there com- 
menced to flit damaging little rumors regarding cer- 
tain transactions in the Gower street residence; 
whispers which speedily grew in volume to open 
speech; dark, ugly reports, hints pertaining to 
marked cards, loaded dice and sundry other nefari- 
ous deeds, coupled with a nasty yarn of how and 
why Phil Edgerton happened to recklessly scatter his 
brains over Trixie's dainty carpet, and fresco her 
delicately-tinted walls so lavishly with crimson life- 



Black Butterflies 157 

gore, which was truly very inconsiderate of him, in- 
deed, and which, despite the many plausible reasons 
vouchsafed, none, nothing could appease the wrath 
of Edgerton's grief-stricken young widow, who cut 
up rough, raised a thundering rumpus — as wives oc- 
casionally will — and boldly said some certain things 
of Mrs. Fairfax which caused some of that lady's 
friends to look askance at the modest abode on 
Gower street. 

Thus Trixie had lived, existed mainly by her wits, 
for nearly one year, when, alas! the dread, sullen 
clouds of adversity, so long warded off, had descend- 
ed low, storm-laden, charged heavily with unpaid 
bills, so hovering thus in dangerous proximity, 
threatened to burst tempestuously forth about Trix- 
ie's pretty ears and fluffy golden head. 

Mrs. Fairfax's ingenuity was therefore taxed to 
the utmost limit. It was utterly useless, absurd, ap- 
pealing to Julian Dacre, her brother, who never had 
a shilling in his pocket. She was in a critical quan- 
dary, and in sheer desperation was tempted to accept 
the offer of an admirer's doubtful protection, kick 
over the traces entirely, cut it all by a bolt for the 
Continent, and leave the obnoxious tradesmen to dun 
and whistle for their money till they were black in 
the face. 

When lo! Providence intervened; for her half- 
brother, Guy Erlynde, whom she had ever held in 
abhorrence and ridicule, suddenly fell heir to his 



158 Black Butterflies 

uncle's fortune, and — joy! Trixie was herself 
again. 

Installed as mistress of Castlewalls was a long leap 
for the hostess of the obscure little den in Gower 
street, and Trixie preened herself anew, altering 
her tactics in accordance with the prevailing order 
of affairs; no metamorphosis could wholly change 
her inborn instincts, however, inherited from a vain, 
frail actress-mother and reprobate father, both long 
since dead — Trixie's affections were mainly as shal- 
low as her brain. Virtue rested on a par with her 
maternal sense — an element absolutely lacking in 
Mrs. Fairfax's composition. Her child maintained 
but a slight hold upon the mother's devotion, who 
delighted to surround herself with life, beauty and 
pleasure. Being essentially feline, she basked in 
warmth, light, luxury; selfishness was her predom- 
inating possession. 

Trixie, being wise in her generation, immediately 
concluded it was imperative that she should neatly 
patch the many rents, smoothly darn the tattered 
edges of her torn reputation, by first systematically 
raking, weeding her hitherto neglected garden of 
Friendship, which in the past few months flourished 
so rank, gaining a tremendous headway, thriving 
apace with lightning rapidity, fed on questionable 
methods, lax morals ; and so she blithely spaded, as- 
sorted, cast aside the majority as worthless, thistles, 
nettles, which are at some future day liable to prick, 



Black Butterflies 159 

sting, or become otherwise troublesome; and to 
guard against such disaster, Trixie selected a fresh 
field, surveyed her land carefully, set out a number 
of different plants and cuttings, mingled with a few 
— a very few — transplanted from the old soil. These 
she industriously cultivated with rare success, which 
when abloom showed a radical change for the better 
— not up to the required standard, possibly, — that 
stupid, strict line which censures certain desirable, 
pleasant little deviations which are as spice sprinkled 
amid the erstwhile tasteless pudding of existence. 
Of course a moderate amount of discretion is some- 
thing we are in downright need of. Propriety for a 
surety deserves, invariably maintains, the right of 
precedence; society necessitates a restraining arm 
around its stately pillars; but then — what would 
you? Stiff old fogies and staid matrons are so tire- 
some ! We must not be too decorus in choosing our 
friends, else they might eventually pry, pick flaws in 
our own characters — a glass house theory — if there 
are any faults to find, we should be the ones to dis- 
cover it in them, not they in us — oh, dear, no ! 

So, Trixie, an illustration of the above fact — all 
knowledge of criminating dice and suspicious cards 
blotted entirely from her memory — queened it to her 
heart's content at Castlewalls, and could now con- 
scientiously pass her erstwhile risky associates, 
whom she wholly repudiated, with a cool stare of 



160 Black Butterflies 

non-recognizance, and Mrs. Grundy cried " Pec- 
cavi ! " 

Three successive times the white and crimson 
roses clambering thickly over the massive gray stone 
walls, proudly budded, blossomed, then drooping de- 
jectedly, cast their fragrant petals athwart the smooth 
greensward below, ere slowly turning to dust for the 
winds to play with. Three times the pheasants 
nested, brooded — thrice had the red deer herded in 
the shady, wellnigh impenetrable forest, brought 
forth their young; and then the master returned. 

Foremost amongst the guests at Castlewalls was 
Lalage Demaris, whom Mrs. Fairfax had met on the 
homeward-bound steamer (and who, likewise, by a 
queer coincidence, had also left a spouse slumbering 
forever calmly beneath the swaying branches of the 
white tamarisks) between whom and herself there 
sprang up, still existed a congenial friendship; and 
when the keen-witted Mrs. Lighton-Stryker sur- 
mised Trixie's latent intent, to wit : the probability 
of a marriage between Guy Erlynde and her friend, 
she hit the nail of Beatrice Fairfax's maneuver 
squarely on the head ; for this is precisely that lady's 
desire, and to that end she has marshaled, steered her 
splendid troupe of well-drilled energies. 

Truly, it is a stupendous undertaking, and clearly 
can only be surmounted by judicious, orderly proce- 
dure ; no flaunting of flags nor blatant bivouac song 
must betray her. Luckily Mrs. Fairfax is a cautious 



Black Butterflies 161 

general who reserves her ammunition and relies 
mainly on events, opportunities. For a time Dacre 
was a serious stumbling-block to her machinations, 
but happily, an important inkling, accidentally 
gained, spurred her onward with renewed vigor, 
until now, nothing daunted, she determinedly 
marches forth, aided, abetted by the erratic Fates 
who play readily into her hands, rendering her faith- 
ful service, gaining fresh force with every turn or 
movement to certain victory. 

Occasionally the tired, overworked wheels of this 
mighty universe clog, causing a halt, a brief stop- 
page of Destiny's machinery, resulting in a leaden 
sameness. All is stationary ; naught seems to budge, 
change. We, impatient passengers on Life's huge 
vehicle, drum our fingers upon its windows, yawn 
grumbling protest against the odious tedium which 
ensues, questioning will this gloomy lull never end? 
To which anything, e,ven calamity, is preferable — al- 
most welcome — to the deadly, prevailing lassitude. 
Thus we fret and fume whilst the Fates rest, in- 
differently rocking like snowy sea-gulls on the 
smooth, dull gray bosom of Ennui's placid ocean, 
idly watching, awaiting that magic signal we so ea- 
gerly crave and which will start those massive 
wheels once more revolving — whither? — which, for 
well or ill, we gladly hail. We foolish mortals de- 
light in variety, excitement. 

Pretentious qualifications (the ruling essence of 



162 Black Butterflies 

existence) is the chief cause; loathing ourselves, con- 
sequently we seek, require some other influence — 
good or evil, it matters nil — to lift us out of our own 
immediate being and tiresome environments of such 
ugly, uninteresting colors. Thoroughly aware of 
our wretched frailties, we are surely pardonable for 
screening them so jealously, and that, my masters, 
is the true and only secret of deceit. Standing upon 
the shifting sands of Life, we are pleased to play at 
cross purposes, fondly imagining we can successfully 
blind our skeptic neighbors to our demerits, or 
strive to gain their approval with feigned abilities, so 
bland is our acting we sometimes unwittingly de- 
ceive ourselves ; for the stars above are scarcely 
higher than our Youth's deceitful visions soar. 

Heigh-ho! When will we learn to hang our hat 
and coat on our own little peg, tuck ourselves cosily 
away into the humble little corner directly at our el- 
bow invariably awaiting our occupancy — that wee 
niche whose space is hollowed, fashioned especially 
to fit, shelter us, and affording ample room if we 
will only fling off, discard forever, that cumbersome, 
disfiguring cloak of Hypocrisy, whose heavy weight 
fatigues our aching body and limbs ? Pray be wise in 
time ! Remember, we cannot cry " A vaunt ! " nor 
hoodwink those Argus-eyed Fates — snap our fingers 
defiantly at false illusions. Enter, abide within this 
peaceful cell of Contentment which far surpasses, 
transcends all visionary prospects, and where, never 



Black Butterflies 163 

fear, if there is genuine merit in your aspirations, 
rest assured they will not long remain dormant, 
hidden. 

But please bear in mind, contemplation of ex- 
pected pleasure is generally pleasanter than the full 
realization of the same. Don't storm, bewail lag- 
gard events. The looms of the Creator's factory 
work slow — but perfect. Don't take trouble too 
seriously. Life is a comedy or tragedy, just as we, 
ourselves, make it. Don't be over-eager for other 
people's opinions; we will find fools in plenty who, 
for their own aggrandizement or interest, are always 
ready, anxious to thrust their worthless advice upon 
us, oftentimes to our sorrow. Let us rely mainly 
upon our instinctive ideas and hereditary principles. 
Don't desire, covet gifts reserved, destined for some 
more fortunate, worthier individual. And lastly, 
don't unceasingly pursue the brilliant, evanescent 
rainbow, rimmed in the distance, which seductively 
beckons, luring us on, on to madness, shame, death. 

Take, for instance, as a safeguard, Mrs. Fairfax, 
who never rebelled against tardy circumstances, and 
who merely adjusted her thinking-cap more firmly 
upon her brows, and composedly waited the coming 
incidents, that as yet unknown instrument, which 
will consummate the final act. 

Whilst the will-power of the Fates establishes an 
invincible, magnetic line which flies through limitless 
space, penetrates all obstacles, till it reaches Jora- 



164 Black Butterflies 

sanko and communes with its object, a tall young 
Brahmin, who has come hither to attend the Pooyak 
ceremonies and offer homage to Doorga, his tutelary 
deity, and who, at the conclusion of the rites, loath 
to leave, still lingers near the goddess' shrine; but 
now, at that mystic command, abruptly announces 
his intention to depart for England on the morrow. 
And thus things obligingly shape themselves in 
Mrs. Fairfax's favor, fit into her plans, arrange- 
ments, as snug and neatly as the painted blocks 
which compose a child's toy house. 



XIII 

" God's images, forsooth. — such as he 

Whom India serves, the monkey deity; 

Ye creatures of a breath, proud things of clay, 

To whom if Lucifer, as grandams say, 

Refused, though at the forfeit of Heaven's light, 

To bend in worship, Lucifer was right!" 

" Are you in trouble ? " 

The music borne upon the moist evening air from 
the brilliantly-ablaze drawing-room, floats toward 
them ; through the low, wide windows the forms of 
dancers are plainly portrayed, the vari-hued gowns 
of the ladies forming a marked and pleasing con- 
trast to the men's sombre dress. 

Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, apparently in high feather, 
conspicuously arrayed in a bewildering mass of 
greenery, is coquetting with an immense fan of the 
same outrageous hue. Kath Brabazon — a pretty, 
witching Kath — clad in simple, creamy mull, her 
hand clasped in Mr. Hume's, would stir the heart 
and pulse of an anchorite. A spray of scarlet gera- 
nium, whose glowing petals scarce equal the cheeks 
and laughing lips of the most madly alluring mouth 
imaginable curving upward to meet and greet the 
wee, deep dimples above, is twined amid her glossy 

165 



166 Black Butterflies 

hair, another cluster of the same tucked within her 
bodice. 

It is an entrancing scene. Dainty Peggie Padel- 
ford, enveloped in some foamy, pink creation, moves 
demurely about, albeit smiling roguishly up into 
Teddy Stryker's eyes. As the dancers pass, repass, a 
tall couple — by far the tallest in the room — move 
hither. Lalage, by some caprice, is robed in a queer 
gown of some oriental fabric and has never appeared 
so enchantingly lovely as in this bizarre costume 
which a more timid woman or one less assured of her 
charms would hesitate long before wearing, and 
which clings as closely to her lithesome form as the 
scales to a snake. And as she glides, twisting her 
supple body, its rays catch, reflect, scintillatingly re- 
spond to every spark of light — she looks not unlike a 
huge serpent. 

Mrs. Fairfax, seated at the piano with Trevor at- 
tentively turning the leaves, is playing, and the 
sweet, rippling notes of the gavotte fall distinctly on 
their ears as the merry guests within bow, move 
slowly, passing with up-clasped hands, through the 
graceful figures of the stately minuet, with the ex- 
ception of Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, who seems unable 
to grasp the conception of the same and is executing 
a wild sort of war dance. 

" Are you in trouble? " 

She had noticed his general air of deep dejection, 



Black Butterflies 167 

and some tender, womanly instinct urged, nay, 
forced her to follow and approach him. 

" You are in trouble ; can I help you ? " 

" No, no ! " yet there is a gesture of mute despair 
in the involuntary uplifting of his shoulders. " No," 
shrinking further into shadow. Then, half apolo- 
getically as if to atone for his abruptness, "The mat- 
ter is really not worth a thought." He lifts his 
large, sad eyes — Erlynde has beautiful eyes, but the 
unmistakable anguish in their dark depths belie his 
words as does the harsh, short laugh which accom- 
panies them. " Ton my word ! " he exhorts, " it is 
awfully good — er — kind of you to bother about me." 

She lays her hand softly upon his shoulders. Per- 
haps the music affects him, or possibly the half-ca- 
ressing touch of that gentle, sympathetic hand over- 
whelms his taut-strung nerves, for he suddenly 
breaks into an uncontrollable burst of boyish grief. 
The hoarse sobs choke and shake his frame as does 
the tempest toss and bend the mighty pine upon the 
hillside. 

She quietly sinks upon the rustic bench beside 
him, and lifting both hands draws his head down, 
down until it rests upon her breast. 

" There, my dear," soothingly, stroking his brow 
and cheek, and then, as tenderly as a mother might, 
presses her cool, sweet lips to his throbbing temples. 
With a groan his arm convulsively encircles her 
waist; yet nothing in this novel situation affronts, 



1 68 Black Butterflies 

nor prudish restraints assail her sensibilities ; that 
from which a less pure-minded woman would shrink 
aghast appears but right and natural to Rosamond 
Arbuthnot whose nature, soaring far, far upward to- 
ward the misty heights, yet ever deigns to glance be- 
neath at the struggling, stumbling ones in the gullies 
and valleys below, to whom her hands are ever out- 
stretched in loving sympathy and whose thoughts 
are now solely occupied appeasing his distress. And 
no sanctified saint should be held in greater reverence 
and esteem than she, who offers the rest, consolation 
of her bosom as freely to this sorrow-stricken man 
as to a forlorn child. 

" There, dear boy," she whispers. " There, my 
poor, poor dear ! " 

Above them a restless bird scrambles, twitters 
amid the branches of the spreading elder-tree, caus- 
ing an occasional showery mass of creamy blossoms 
of aromatic fragrance to fall. The full moon shines 
gloriously, shimmering the lawn and park with an 
elfin, silvery radiance against which the avenue of 
pine trees loom massive, sullen, and bathing the 
ghostly statue of Diana — around which a tropical 
vine laden with its immense, gorgeous, red blossoms, 
tightly twines — in a flood of light. The atmosphere 
is redolent with subtle, sweet perfume of flowers — 
carnations, heliotrope, lilac, lavender, commingled 
in the tender night, offering up their incense to the 
stars as prodigious as that which Nero consumed at 



Black Butterflies 169 

the funeral of Poppsea, which filled the Romans with 
amazement. 

Rosamond partly suspects Guy's secret, therefore 
her sympathy is intensified, though on that subject 
her lips are mute. And now his arms gradually 
relax their fierce pressure; his sobs lessen, the wild 
paroxysm subsides — passes. Yet they remain mo- 
tionless, his head resting upon her shoulder. The 
music within ceases ; Trixie arises, the dancers pause, 
mingle. 

Lalage and Emoclew turn and lean over the case- 
ment of a near-by window, glancing out into the 
night stillness which is broken only by the waters of 
the fountain falling into its marble basin, or the soft 
rustle of leaf and bough from the dense thicket of 
myrtle, stately palms and lofty Lebanon cedars, fill- 
ing the air with numerous stealthy whispers, fraught 
with weird, dark secrets of the East, interrupted ever 
and anon by a nightingale from some hidden glade 
suddenly bursting into a delicious melody, passion- 
ate, vibrating. 

There is a new expression on Lalage's face tonight 
— an expression of pleasure and delight. The habit- 
ual shade of ennui seems to have entirely vanished 
as she smiles brightly into her companion's face. 
Some one else has now taken Trixie's place at the 
piano, and once more the music sweeps out. This 
time it is a lively, rollicking mazurka, in which the 
two standing apart at the window do not join. 



170 Black Butterflies 

In close proximity a laugh rings out; evidently 
some of the guests, attracted by the magic beauty of 
the moonlit night have deserted the drawing-room 
and are approaching. 

" Hey! Spoons! " ejaculates Mrs. Lighton-Stry- 
ker, who has, with Mr. Hyde in tow, made a bee 
line for this identical spot and now stops short in 
some consternation, beneath the elder-tree. Is her 
prophecy, then, to prove false ? At the possibility of 
such, she is naturally aggrieved. " Hey ! Pardon ! 
Mrs. Arbuthnot and Mr. Erlynde in hiding," turn- 
ing on her heel. " How — er — extremely romantic ! " 

" Oh, here you are," cries Miss Brabazon, saun- 
tering up followed by several others. " Let me have 
your fan a moment, Rosamond ; Valentine has mine 
in his pocket. I'm so broken with weariness since 
that last dance, I can't lift a finger — ready to expire ! 
My hair is higgledy-piggledy, I've danced the hair- 
pins all out of my head, and lost the heel off of one 
of my slippers. I really believe it flew out of the 
window, and " 

"If it should alight, meteor-like, on your head, 
Rosamond, I tremble for the consequences," scoffs 
Dacre. 

" Valentine is searching for it now," continues 
Miss Brabazon, totally ignoring the interpolator. 

" He'll be sure to stumble across it — can't possibly 
miss it," bent upon tantalizing her. "Say, Guy, did 
you happen to hear a dull, heavy thud a few minutes 



Black Butterflies 171 

ago? I'd advise Hume to get a spade; it has evi- 
dently sunk several feet into the ground." 

"Make room, dear," says Kath to Rosamond; 
" take pity on me and let me sit between you and 
Guy, if I'm not de trop. My foot's sore; Julian 
stepped on my toe ; he " 

" Your toe? " in feigned incredulity, still persist- 
ing in his waggery. " Impossible ! I thought it was 
one of those carved tabourets which Trixie has such 
a fond penchant for, strewing promiscuously about 
to catch the unwary. Ton my word! I haven't got 
over the shock yet; knocked me a regular twister 
and " 

" There ! " Dacre's further utterance is cut short 
by a smart whack of a fan across the mouth, admin- 
istered by the irate Miss Brabazon. " There, that'll 
teach you to discriminate between my toe and a 
horrid old hassock next time you go flopping around 
like a great, clumsy bear." 

" You've loosened two of my front teeth," mourn- 
fully. 

" Serves you right," says Peggie Padelford, with- 
eringly. " You require discipline sadly. I declare, he 
is positively growing unendurable and is forever 
squabbling. He has been rude to me all day and — I 
shudder to think of it — passed the whole afternoon 
drawing grinning skulls, cross-bones, coffins, and 
quite ruined my sketch-book." 

" Yes, and he drew two nasty skeletons dancing 



172 Black Butterflies 

on the tablecloth, at luncheon. It turned me quite ill 
and faint. I couldn't eat a mouthful," retorts Kath. 
"Yes," answers Peggie, and oh, did you notice 
how savagely he stabbed his cutlet and rolled mur- 
derous-looking bullets out of bread crumbs? It 
quite frightened me. 

" And he's as cross as a grizzly bear," exclaims 
Kath, plaintively, " and forever nagging and 
growling." 

" I'm in love," sighs Peggie, suddenly. 

" With me ? " rapturously cries Dacre. 

" Madly, desperately in love ! " oblivious of Dacre, 
as Emoclew, with Lalage's white fingers resting on 
his arm, her radiant gown glittering in the moon- 
light, slowly moves across the lawn. " Yes, madly, 
desperately in love with Guy's friend. He's so hand- 
some, so cultured; his manners are perfect; his face 
fascinates me ; he is young, too, much younger than 
I imagined him to be." 

" Humph ! " sneers Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, hover- 
ing about within ear-shot. " He's as swarthy as a 
mulatto." 

" He is certainly not a bad-looking fellow. Is he 
a Theosophist — they nearly always are?" quoth 
Dacre, moving to Peggie's side. " How would you 
like to join his harem ? I hear he has got a stunning 
set of beauties of whom he has grown tired, and that 
his sole purpose in coming to this country is to 
gather a fresh supply. The others, on his return, 



Black Butterflies 173 

are to be disposed of. I believe drowning is usually 
the method, being also the most humane death — both 
painless and easy — in fact, pleasant. However," 
cheerfully, " you may experience the pleasure some 
day. I was told he has an unlimited number of 
rupees to his credit. If you marry him you'll be a 
sort of Begum. " 

" I'm in a quandary," says Miss Padelford, turn- 
ing toward Guy Erlynde. " Please enlighten me. 
How shall I address him — as Sahib, or just plain 
Mister?" 

" As ' Your Excellency ! ' " cries the indomitable 
Dacre. " As l Your Excellency,' by all means." 

" Uncle Julie ! Uncle Julie ! screams little Bobs, 
fleeing toward Dacre, pursued by her nurse. 
" Uncle Julie ! " clasping both chubby arms about 
his legs like the tentacles of a small devilfish and 
valiantly resisting the maid's frantic efforts to de- 
tach them. 

" Hello, Bobs ! Not in bed yet ? " Dacre stoops 
and lifts her in his arms ; " you rummy little beggar, 
aren't you afraid of the Bogie Mans ? " 

" I had a letter from mamma, today," says Kath 
Brabazon, addressing Rosamond, who answers, 

" Yes, dear — and what was the news ? " 

" None," pouts the girl. " None worth speaking 
of. It was dated from Japan. They are en route 
home." 

" That will please you? " 



174 Black Butterflies 

" No," crossly. " Before mamma married Mr. 
Jones she adored Paris, but now she seems to have 
changed her mind in accordance with his. It ap- 
pears my stepfather desires to live in England. He 
is ambitious — wants to go in for politics and all that. 
For my part I prefer Paris to London — dear delight- 
ful Paris ! Everyone behaves so much better there," 
with a resentful glance toward Julian Dacre, " and 
are always sending one bonbons, flowers and 
things." 

" Cruel one ! " answers Guy. " You shall have a 
cart-load of roses in the morning." 

" All right," coolly, " providing they are my 
favorite Jacqueminots." 

" I will strip the conservatory for you." 

" Look at Mrs. Lighton-Stryker " grumbles Kath, 
who is evidently in a cantankerous mood. " Faugh ! 
Just look at her — horrid old frump ! Strutting about 
like a peacock, everlastingly twirling that hideous 
fan. No wonder she is warm, with her dress but- 
toned up to her ears." 

" The penalty she must pay for a lean neck," re- 
plies Mr. Erlynde. 

" No doubt," laughs Miss Brabazon, unconscious- 
ly caressing her own plump throat. 

" You are still at swords' points with Mrs. 
Stryker?" 

Kath nods affirmatively. " Yes, she reminds me 



Black Butterflies 175 

of a quarrelsome hen, with that disagreeable little 
cackle of hers." 

Lalage Demaris, always the center of attraction 
by the divine right of her peerless beauty, is still 
moving slowly about the lawn with Emoclew by her 
side. Tonight she is unusually gay and talkative; 
the joy bells in her heart are set a-ringing as she 
stops ever and anon to exchange a laughing word 
with someone. The slight air of restraint and chilly 
hauteur which has hitherto clung about her has, as 
if by magic, wholly disappeared, leaving her an 
ordinary mortal for the nonce at least. 

Julian Dacre, seemingly unmindful of Mrs. De- 
maris' metamorphosis, is ardently devoting his at- 
tentions to some slim young person who accepts 
them in coy complaisance; whilst Mr. Invorarity, 
full of bonhomie, jovial as usual, is flirting lazily 
with Mrs. Arrowes, a late arrival. Pat Invorarity 
has a decided penchant for new faces — fair or ugly, 
it matters not; all invariably pall upon his fickle 
fancy in an incredibly short time. 

" Ahem ! " coughs the lynx-eyed Priscilla, he*- 
pince-nez directed disapprovingly upon Lalage De* 
maris' graceful form, and casting a swift, furtive 
glance toward Dacre, evidently desirous of arousing 
that gentleman's jealousy. " Ahem, Queen Guine- 
vere has at last met her Lancelot. What an outland- 
ish gown she is wearing," spitefully — " ugh ! she 
reminds me of an anaconda." 



176 Black Butterflies 

"Would that she were!" ejaculates Miss Barb- 
azon, sotto voce, " and that she would swallow you 
— horns, hoofs and all." . 

" Amen ! " fervently echoes Dacre. 

" Is you a cow ? " asks Bobs, anxiously, leaning 
from Dacre's shoulder to peer inquisitively into Mrs. 
Stryker's face. 

" A cow ! " shrieks that lady, " Mercy sakes ! has 
the child gone daft ? " 

" I thought you was a cow," answers Bobs, "cause 
Kath just now said you had horns an' hoofses, but " 
dubiously, " I can't see none, though." 

" Oh! Miss Brabazon said that, did she? " with 
an annihilating glance toward the crimson culprit. 
" Well," inelegantly, " what can one expect from a 
pig but a grunt? " 

" Oh, Bobs ! " groans Kath, as the nurse straight- 
way whisks the baby from off her lofty perch and 
bears her nursery ward, " Oh, Bobs ; you have done 
it!" 

" Aha ! " chuckles Mr. Dacre maliciously, " now 
you've put your foot in it ! " 

A small coterie which includes Emoclew and La- 
lage now surrounds Rosamond Arbuthnot, who pos- 
sesses a rare conversational charm which is never 
stilted, strained by useless affectation nor grandilo- 
quence ; no matter how commonplace the topic under 
discussion may be, she invariably brightens it by the 
wit and beauty of her original, graceful fancy. She 



Black Butterflies 177 

has, too, an abundance of unparalleled powerful, 
logical diction which enables her to meet, turn the 
most ordinary, prosaic subject into bright, clever 
witticism. 

The only child of a savant, Rosamond has, from 
earliest girlhood, imbibed some of the massive 
thoughts of Socrates, Plato, Aristotle and others of 
those wonderful thinkers; her mind is therefore 
stored with rich and varied ideas. With this ad- 
vantage, her alert imagination can easily overstep 
the narrow boundary of prejudice, and by swift, 
happy intonation gain her listeners' favor (who 
might differ materially) and finally win them to her 
own opinions. And so Rosamond Arbuthnot talked 
easily, naturally, giving free vent to her fancies and 
showing her consummate knowledge of Life, Men 
and Literature of many countries, holding her lis- 
teners entranced, and even compelling Mrs. Lighton- 
Stryker, whether she understands or not, to listen. 

" Yes," the sweet cadence of her voice is heard 
in response to some remark of Grosvenor's, " yes, 
indeed, large sorrows we are braced to meet; sus- 
tained, cheered by human sympathy. It is the trifles 
which we most dread, guard against. These furtive 
small missiles of sorrow, thrown by the sly, firm, 
unerring hand of Destiny, which smart, bruise, 
cripple us, sapping our energy and life; as constant 
dripping water wears away a rock, so do these petty 
vexations wear us mortals out, until, like a con- 



178 Black Butterflies 

quered thing, we sink beneath the relentless lash of 
Fate." 

" So, Mrs. Arbuthnot, you are a fatalist — eh?" 
sarcastically remarks Mrs. Lighton-Stryker. 

" Yes," with quiet dignity, " yes, to a certain 
extent, I am." 

" Wouldn't it be delightful," cries Kath, " if we 
had hammocks swung up here amongst the trees 
and should sleep outside all night, like a lot of 
gypsies ? " 

" What a truly Bacchanate idea," laughs Lalage. 

" I can imagine nothing so preposterous," snaps 
Mrs. Lighton-Stryker. 

" Nor I," chimes Invorarity. " We'd all wake 
up with the earache, rheumatism, lumbago or some 
other ailment." 

" It would be the acme of bliss," says Dacre. 

" Bliss — forsooth ! " scoffs Peggie. " You'd make 
the night hideous with your snores; you do snore 
dreadfully. I heard you last night; you went to 
sleep on the couch in the drawing-room after din- 
ner." 

" Oh, spare my blushes," whimpers Dacre. 
" However, I intend to sleep here in spite of influ- 
enza, earwigs, to boot. I swear it by — I've for- 
gotten," appealing to Invorarity; " which of the two 
did King Lear swear by — that old sot Bacchus, or 
the pretty boy Apollo? Bah! It doesn't signify. 
I'd rather swear by Venus and Aphrodite — divine 



Black Butterflies 179 



goddesses of Love, and — er — such — more appropri- 
ate to my idea." 

" Oh, yes," answers Invorarity. " We all know 
you'd swear by anything that wears petticoats." 

"Did — do goddesses wear petticoats?" inno- 
cently. " I have my doubts. The only ones I ever 
saw wore the traditional fig-leaf." 

" Oh ! " shrieks Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, " that re- 
mark is downright indecent." 

" Yes, it is indeed, ma'am," sweetly acquiesces 
Mr. Invorarity. " It surely is. Just glance, for in- 
stance, at that shameless Diana yonder. Begorrah ! 
You ought," turning reproachfully toward Mrs. 
Fairfax, " you really ought, you know, to tie a 
shawl, scarf, something, about her; it shocks my 
sensibilities every time I look in that direction — it 
does, for a truth ! " 

" H'm. I consider the fig leaf a very appropriate 
dress," interposes Emoclew, evidently possessed 
with a spirit of cynicism, " and it would be a laud- 
able idea, not to mention comfort, if it were to be 
adopted universally — especially on a warm night 
like this." 

" Splendid idea ! " cry several voices. 

" If we could only find someone brave enough to 
take the lead," hazards Kath. 

" Will you be that one, Mrs. Demaris ? " asks 
Emoclew. 

" I heartily coincide with your suggestion," 



180 Black Butterflies 

laughs Lalage. " If it rests with me, you'll see us, 
if the morning is not too cold, all down to breakfast 
in that attire, providing we find a fig leaf tied to our 
doorknob." 

"With one exception," snorts Mrs. Lighton- 
Stryker. 

" And I warn you beforehand," snickers Trixie, 
" I want my leaf edged with real Valenciennes lace, 
and a ruffle or two." 

" I'm surprised at you ! " Mrs. Lighton-Stryker 
glares at Trixie — " that you," grimly, " the mother 
of a family, should so far forget yourself." 

" Do you call my one poor little Bobs a family ? " 
good-naturedly laughs Trixie. " And if they are to 
wear those fig leaves, I'm sure I want one." 

" Vanity, thy name is Woman," declaims Invorar- 
ity. 

" And then I suppose," grumbles Teddy Stryker, 
" you'll all be clamoring for the smallest — Oh, I beg 
pardon; I mean, of course, the largest leaf." 

" Edward ! " shrieks Mrs. Stryker, " Edward 
Stryker, this is the last straw ; such language, and 
before your own wife, too, is not to be tolerated." 

" Now I've done it," sighs poor Teddy dismally, 
aside to Dacre. " Can't square myself in a thousand 
years." 

The conversation now becomes desultory, drift- 
ing off into different channels. 

" Yes, we spend the few short years of our lives 



Black Butterflies 181 

vainly theorizing," Invorarity's voice is heard in 
argument with Emoclew, " vaguely speculating on 
the pros and cons of existence. What do we gain? " 

" You are evidently a pessimist," answers the 
Hindoo. 

" On the contrary, I'm a stanch optimist, but 
nevertheless maintain we are all a pack of fools seek- 
ing to become conversant with that which is and will 
continue to be a mystery to the end of time. We 
study science, religion; rack our wretched brains 
over useless, contradictory philosophy, so ungrasp- 
able it teaches us nothing — nay, leaves us more ig- 
norant than before. Mythology, my friend; all, all 
mythology, nothing else. In fact, when caught it 
is but a handful of froth which vanishes, melts with- 
in our hold." 

" Not always," rejoins Emoclew. " The froth 
you mention is sometimes like the soft, equally evan- 
escent snowflake. Yet catch, roll it briskly into a 
hard ball and it becomes compact, solid, hardened; 
so is it with philosophy. I allude to practical phi- 
losophy ; no visionary theories " 

" That's it," interjects Dacre, " that's it exactly. 
The Darwin theory in an egg-shell — isn't that prac- 
tical enough to suit the most skeptical mind? — and 
therefore the fig leaf which we have just been dis- 
cussing was the first step toward civilization ; a fact, 
I assure you. I've given the subject most serious 
consideration." 



182 Black Butterflies 

" Perhaps you're right," smiles Emoclew, 
" though I don't much relish the connection." 

"What's that?" cries Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, 
bearing down upon them, cocked and primed for 
battle. "What's that?" 

" Bejabers, Mrs. Stryker, darlint, he's preaching 
treason against the human race," answers Invorar- 
ity, tearfully, " and says he believes as that brute 
Darwin did, that we all sprang from monkeys. 
Shocking, isn't it ? " 

" Yes," replies Dacre, " I accept the theory, be- 
cause I faithfully believe in it. All civilization 
points conclusively to the fact ; everything pertaining 
to the human race asserts it, and if you should ever 
read Darwin's " Descent of Man " you could no 
longer doubt it." 

" I grant it is a galling belief," joins in Desmond, 
" but can't help agreeing with Julian. Myself," 
bowing deeply in mock devotion before Mrs. Ligh- 
ton-Stryker, " I myself secretly loathe the thought 
as most unworthy when compared, confronted with 
so much grace and loveliness." 

" I consider Darwin's theory a beastly insult to 
the whole human race," says Mr. Invorarity in secret 
league against the lady. " It shames, degrades our 
moral nature, and that you" with a sly dig in 
Dacre's ribs, '''' should champion such a theory — a 
theory which reduces us to the level of beasts — I 
can't for the life of me understand." 



Black Butterflies 183 



"Darwin compliments us," answers Julian Dacre. 
" Monkeys are nice, clever, intelligent, witty little 
animals. Now if he had given us as our progeni- 
tors a stupid sheep, pig or donkey, we might have 
cause to complain and feel justly affronted at the 
relationship." 

" Such idiotic doctrines and sentiments are sick- 
ening," says Priscilla Stryker, in her sharp, high 
staccato. " It only tends to corrupt humanity. Mr. 
Invorarity's right," dramatically waving her fan in 
that gentleman's direction, " such ridiculous ideas 
lower our higher nature and degrade all better, finer 
sensibilities." 

" First-rate little animals, the monkeys. Why are 
you so hard on them? " sighs Dacre. " Now I've 
often thought," pensively, " what a jolly little mon- 
key Miss Brabazon would make — I can see her now, 
in my mind's eye, scampering about and swinging 
gaily from the branch of a cocoanut tree, head down- 
ward, suspended by her charming little " 

" Stop ! " commands Kath, in a towering passion. 
" Stop ; I forbid you to finish that — that — shameful 
sentence." 

" What? " chorus the crowd. 

"Shameful sentence?" blankly. "How do you 
know what I was going to say ? ,s 

" I can guess." 

" No, you can't," indignantly. " I was merely go- 



184 Black Butterflies 

ing to say — toes ! " triumphantly. " You have got 
a toe; I know it to my sorrow." 

" O — h ! " lamely. " But — but — I consider it an 
insult to compare us to a lot of apes and horrid, hairy 
baboons, anyway." 

" Oh, I see," sneers Julian, " it wounds you in 
your tenderest point." 

" And what's that, pray? " snaps Miss Brabazon. 

" Your self-conceit." 

" If you'd say our self-esteem," answers Mrs. 
Lighton-Stryker, loftily, " you'd come nearer the 
mark." 

" No," firmly, shaking his head ; " self-conceit. 
It is nothing but vanity that causes you to so heart- 
lessly repudiate your ancestors. Vanity predomi- 
nates the human race, else why, in moments of bodily 
danger, do we mortals lift our hands to shield our 
faces?" 

" Fiddlesticks ! " retorts Mrs. Stryker, tartly. 
" Luckily your blasphemous logic regarding mon- 
keys won't hold water." 

" Blasphemous logic? " blankly. 

" Yes, you are certainly blaspheming against the 
Creator, aren't you? whom the scripture assures us 
fashioned us after His own divine image, and out 
of your own mouth you stand convicted, for you 
have — deny it if you dare! — likened the Supreme 
Being to an orang-outang." 



XIV 

" He who holds no laws in awe, 
He must perish by the law." 

Emoclew-Houssein Rao, directly descended from 
that noble Brahmin, Rayee Rao, the hereditary ac- 
countant of a Concan village, who, when Saho, the 
Mahratta Prince, was by Azim (younger son of the 
dead King Aurengzebe) released from Mongul 
bondage, his chief supporter, and assisted him in 
seizing from the Mohammedan Shah the entire 
countries and wide-spreading territories south of the 
river Chambal, including Allahabad, Mattra and the 
holy city of Benares; successfully overthrowing 
Tara Bye, widow of the great Raya Ram, a remark- 
ably clever, beautiful woman, who, owing to the 
weak intellect of her son Sevayee, assumed full au- 
thority and carried on the war and affairs of state 
with wondrous wisdom and ability. 

Rayee Rao was for these valuable services gen- 
erously rewarded and honored by Prince Saho with 
the office of Peishwa (prime Minister) the Prince 
giving himself up in the meantime entirely to pleas- 
ure and amusement. Therefore, as a natural conse- 
quence, Rayee Rao became in time the real King of 

185 



1 86 Black Butterflies 

the vast Mahratta Empire, over which he ruled with 
justice and kindness for many years and at his death 
bequeathed his power, honors and wealth to his de- 
scendants. 

The Brahmins are divided into numerous castes 
or grades, namely: From Brahma the Great — The 
Undiscernible One's — mouth, springs the high 
priests ; from his arm, soldiers ; from his thigh, mer- 
chants, farmers ; and from his foot, the servile class. 

Emoclew-Houssein Rao was of the former, the 
very highest order, his first schooling being under 
a thatched shed on sanded floor; his early learning 
included astronomy, astrology and physics. Then, 
later, his father, a stern, orthodox follower of the 
Brahminical creed, commanded his son to study the 
sacred gayu-tree and subsequently adopt the priestly 
dress, with the kosh-grass poita removed and a real 
thread poita, with three strands spun by Brahmin 
women, substituted, which he must wear ever after- 
ward. At which the boy (by no means an adherent 
to this faith, and while he was a close attendant at 
the Dusseral festival) secretly rebelled against the 
ridiculous rites which he was bade to perform. His 
father's creed was totally different, foreign to his 
own views and fancies. Thus he neglected Vishnu 
and Siva (almost universally acknowledged the 
patron god of Hindustan) entirely, and worshiped 
Doorga, an inferior diety by far. For was it not 
to her he had knelt; once when his young mother 



Black Butterflies 187 

lay — when arts, medicine and prayers to Vishnu 
seemed alike to fail — ill unto death? Again for a 
favorite horse? Another time a pet dog — and 
Doorga had always hearkened and, after Siva and 
Vishnu cruelly ignored his supplications, invariably 
granted his request. 

At his father's and mother's death — the latter 
heroically manifesting her constancy and affection 
by sacrificing herself upon the funeral pyre, in the 
fond belief of their souls' quick reunion in happier, 
purer realms — thus deprived of both parents, the 
young priest still struggled between his religion and 
his philosophy and the latter conquered. He could 
not discard his philosophical convictions; with this 
result — he abjured his orders and his faith and 
straightway shook the Brahminical trappings from 
off his back, wholly repudiating his race and all per- 
taining to their teachings, save a few, and at others 
he defiantly snapped his fingers, casting aside the 
gods — everything — with the sole exception of his 
tutelary deity, Doorga, and, marking out his own 
path, meant despite all obstacles to follow it to the 
end; a decision never regretted. 

And even now he remembers with a shudder of 
repulsion, the hideous red garment which he in his 
youth was compelled to don upon assuming the 
dunda, and the unsightly piece of deer-skin they 
forced him to wear, strapped across his reluctant, 
boyish shoulders. And with what untold aversion 



188 Black Butterflies 

he regarded Saligram Sulu, that stupid round stone, 
the ordinary household god, whom his simple par- 
ents bade him worship. 'Tis true, his old uncle, 
Amajee Baber, a devout votary, follower and patri- 
archal priest, highest in Brahma's calling, uttered 
fearful maledictions and roundly cursed him for a 
renegade, a pariah dog, a vile chandalah, who must 
wander forever ostracised, his name a word of fear 
and loathing, an outcast from his kind. But what 
of that? Bah! Don't curses, like chickens — as the 
English say — come home to roost? 

Emoclew's mind, broadened by travel, observation 
and learning, his ideas and principles now became 
almost thoroughly Europeanized. He had studied, 
become inundated with the philosophy of all the old- 
world thinkers, which has now merely left him coldly 
cynical, his innermost soul still unsatisfied; and, in 
this condition, philosophy is of small value or com- 
fort to him. What is the cause? Not religion — he 
has none. He observes neither Pagan nor Christian 
creed; nor is it doubt, nor longing, natural regret 
for his caste, which feeling he knew to be totally 
dispelled. 

When he formed the friendship of Mahmud- 
Akber, the Mullah in charge of the Kahriye Mosque, 
and listened to the fanatical Mussulman's harangue 
and retrospective yarns (who lived in the hope of 
both Hindoo and Christian faith being exterminated 
and the Koran established by the aid of the sword), 



Black Butterflies 189 

enthused narratives teeming with treason and re- 
membrance of Abder-Rahman and his Arabian cav- 
alry — he would listen without the slightest resent- 
ment, in amused, interested silence, for hours ; and 
if a lazy contempt mingled with his thoughts, the 
enthused speaker never suspected it, as he would 
cry: 

" Yes, yes ! We had extinguished the Seven 
Churches of Asia, had almost swept North Africa 
of its Christianity ; passed the Hills of Hercules, con- 
quered Spain, crossed the Pyrenees, ascended into 
France and Germany with the intention of complet- 
ing the Mediterranean Circuit and making Europe 
as Mohammedan as we had made Asia Minor and 
Palestine. But now, alas!" dolefully, "instead of 
the Mosque, the minaret and the muezzin's cry call- 
ing the faithful to the Koran and to prayers, there 
arise the spires of the Christian dogs' church and the 
stupid clanging of its bells." 

To these frequent tirades Emoclew neither agreed 
nor disagreed; his mind completely passive, indif- 
ferent. Those mighty exploits of by-gone years, 
savage, chivalric strife, had no power to arouse, only 
merely interest him. Though of higher caste, 
Emoclew-Houssein Rao much resembles in looks 
and physique the Aryan type of Kanoujya Brahmins, 
who seldom hold priestly office, the majority pre- 
ferring military service, They, though not esteemed 



190 Black Butterflies 

of purest stock, are nevertheless perhaps the finest 
physical race in India. 

Emoclew-Houssein Rao is unusually tall, slight, 
graceful, with limbs straight as the Narcissus; but 
at will, or when danger menaces, those same slim, 
supple limbs, capable of enduring immense fatigue, 
instantly become firm, containing muscles like finely- 
tempered steel, which have been tested, the truth of 
which his grateful friend Guy Erlynde, whose life 
hung for one dread moment in the balance, could 
vouch for in the following incident : 

While passing through an Indian jungle, Erlynde, 
by some carelessness or mischance, became separated 
from his companions, which fact, dimly-realized, 
was suddenly forced on him, being confronted by 
the crouching form and blazing yellow eyes of an 
immense tigress. Horrified, powerless, the unfortu- 
nate man awaited the furious spring which meant 
certain death, well knowing the slightest movement 
on his part would hasten to hurl him with agonized 
suffering into eternity. 

Dumbly he watched the huge, red tongue rolling 
in cruel anticipation across the gleaming fangs des- 
tined soon to tear, devour his yet-living flesh, and 
shudderingly closed his eyes in momentary expecta- 
tion of that panting body flung against his own, that 
hot, fierce breath at his throat, and braced himself, 
imagining the final preparatory doubling of the 
haunches, and then A sharp hissing sound cleft 



Black Butterflies 191 

the air, followed by a surprised, stifled snarl. A 
rope had been swiftly flung with unerring aim 
around the animal's neck, and Emoclew, cool, calm, 
smilingly held the end of the lasso. The tigress 
rolled, struggled with baffled fury upon the ground, 
and when its intended prey stepped from direct bullet 
range, his deliverer sent a shot whizzing straight 
between those angry eyes. 

Emoclew-Houssein Rao, though bordering a trifle 
upon effeminacy, is singularly pleasing; there is a 
certain nobleness in his erect carriage and a charm 
about the set of his head ; his nose is purely aquiline ; 
between the eyes, shaded by narrow, arched brows, 
is a decidedly wide breadth which gives to his coun- 
tenance an uncommon expression. Those eyes, so 
darkly pensive, melancholy, filled with unbounded 
depths of romance, poetry, passion, are seemingly 
fraught with powerful magnetism, for a woman 
seldom glances beyond them, nor is she heedless to 
the soft, low tones of his voice which possesses a 
wonderfully seductive, caressing quality. A pathetic 
nonchalance, characteristic of all ascetic, fatalist 
nations, a morose resignation, clings about him, 
heightening the mysterious, fascinating influence of 
his personality. 

Emoclew - Houssein Rao's brilliant qualities 
(though never affecting superiority) all who come 
in contact with him feel instinctively, while gazing 
upon him and listening to his half-serious, half- 



192 Black Butterflies 

bantering remarks, and involuntarily acknowledge 
him their superior. Yet he is inclined to be retiring, 
never thrusting his knowledge forward. He seems 
to know everything they know or could impart, and 
retains the mysterious source which inspired, nour- 
ished those hidden thoughts and meanings, those 
idiosyncrasies, cynicisms, evidently inherited from 
paternal channels, which fit him like a glove, com- 
bined with such amiability that they forget and for- 
give him an occasional shaft at their expense. 
Emoclew's cynicism is quite devoid of that vulgar 
sarcasm so often engendered by petty jealousy, mal- 
ice or envy, and which is so fatal to popularity. He 
is exceedingly fond of his friend, Guy Erlynde, with 
whom he occasionally amuses himself by scoff and 
jest. This friendship Erlynde reciprocates, and ad- 
mires the Brahmin beyond measure, whose presence 
gives an impetus to his life and lulls his morose sen- 
sibilities to rest — a moroseness caused by seeing, 
from earliest childhood, people draw back fright- 
ened, and children scream in terror at his forbidding 
exterior. When in Emoclew's presence the hunch- 
back entirely forgets his ugliness. Erlynde always 
has a vague dread and is constantly haunted by the 
fear of losing this true, yet incomprehensible, friend. 
Though many soft feminine cheeks have flushed, 
bright eyes drooped, and hearts fluttered at his word 
or glance, Emoclew-Houssein Rao has never wedded 
but once. Some ten years previous, while sojourn- 



Black Butterflies 193 

ing in fair, sunny Italy, he met and with vehement 
ardor wooed and won the beauteous maiden who be- 
came his wife, between whose sweet, dead memory 
and the one child of their brief, blissful union and 
passionate young love his heart is now shared. The 
loss of this idolized young wife was the only instance 
in which Emoclew's steadfast belief in Doorga ever 
wavered. The goddess, despite his wild entreaties, 
protestations, prayers, remained obdurately blind, 
deaf to all pleadings, and in despair, when the white 
soul took flight, he bitterly renounced, forsook this 
deity. But when later a wee morsel of humanity, 
with its mother's soft, sweet eyes, lay within his 
arms, then that faith in Doorga returned tenfold, 
For was she not wise and good, knowing what is 
best; nor had he the right to censure, question her 
methods or purpose who had thus so thoughtfully, 
kindly chastened the blow of his affliction? 

In that quiet, sleepy, little Italian village, amid the 
sun-kissed grapes and flowers, Nestora, his daughter, 
lives and thrives, a living image of his dear, dead 
love; and that is where he now passes the happiest 
days of his life. 

Italy, also, is where Emoclew found Paolo — a 
very much frightened Paolo, indeed — fleeing for his 
graceless life from an irate husband's just venge- 
ance, when the Hindoo's ready arm stayed the 
gleaming blade of the frenzied Italian's stiletto and 
thus averted the scamp's death. This act gained 



194 Black Butterflies 

Paolo's love and everlasting gratitude, who swore 
no idle boast: his life was henceforth from that 
moment at his rescuer's disposal, to whose side he 
straightway allied himself, blithely twanged his gui- 
tar, smoked limitless cigarettes, made love to every 
pretty face he saw, and managed to enjoy himself 
in Emoclew's service generally; his master mean- 
while smiling in easy tolerance, for strange to say, 
though pedantically moral both mentally and physic- 
ally himself, Emoclew is wonderfully lenient re- 
garding such deficiencies in others. 

Paolo, from extensive travel with Emoclew 
through different countries, has acquired, mastered 
many languages, and become in an incredibly short 
space of time a proficient linguist, and it is not un- 
usual to hear his rich tenor voice lilting in the tones 
of a passionate love ditty, rendered equally persua- 
sive, pleasing, in almost any tongue under the sun. 

These years spent with Emoclew were not with- 
out their risks and adventures, for the gay rascal, 
unable to resist an amour whenever the possibility 
or slightest opportunity presented itself, was con- 
tinually running hairbreadth escapes from the venge- 
ful fury of husbands, brothers or sweethearts, with 
the result of no sooner being out of one scrape than 
into another; and no danger from such, however 
great, as to prevent its repetition. 

Threats, warnings by the dozen were poured into 
Emoclew's ears, regarding his valet's unscrupulous 



Black Butterflies 195 

conduct, to be received with a laugh, indifferent 
shoulder-shrug, or a — 

" Tut, tut ! Let your women take care of them- 
selves and their virtue, or else reconcile themselves 
to that which may betide them through their folly 
and frailties." Sensible doctrine, doubtless, but not 
always consoling nor satisfactory to the injured 
one's feelings. 

Out upon the bright, clear horizon of Paolo's 
happy existence floats little feathery, rose-tipped 
clouds, above whose edges the roguish, laughing 
eyes of Master Cupid peep, with his arrows ever 
ready; and nothing else definite, save a certain un- 
defined bliss for the warm, strong, young life beating 
within him, never permitting his heart and fancy 
to stand still, but to run riot in any line Love's com- 
pass points, heedless to what direction or peril it 
might lead him. 

Occasionally Emoclew would regard this Lothario 
with a mixture of compassion, admiration, contempt 
and, yes — a considerable amount of envy for his 
lightness of mind and self-manufactured ideals — 
ideals which Emoclew-Houssein Rao's soul, buried 
deep amid the gray ashes of the past, strive as it 
might, could never again create nor hope to awaken, 
and which he knew by psychological experiments to 
be decisive. 

This strange art which Emoclew possesses was ac- 
quired when relinquishing his own class and when 



196 Black Butterflies 

temporarily residing with a secret, mysterious sect 
terming themselves Brahmo-Sornaj, by whom he be- 
came, after energetic pursuance, an adept in occult- 
ism which enables him now, by the slightest effort, 
to summon, command, subject to his will that which 
threatens soon to rend, overthrow, perchance de- 
stroy, that skeptic part of his second self not in com- 
mune with the other — that indomitable other half 
which is filled, seething, with mighty, conscious 
power. 



XV 

" And this too must I suffer — I, who never 
Inflicted purposely on human hearts 
A voluntary pang ! " 

« w— A— N— T— O— N— saint! " 

This positive, triumphant assurance, which the 
speaker fully expected to be greeted with hearty 
bursts of acclaim, has, however, quite the reverse 
effect, being received in blank silence — a silence so 
sad, so profound, one could imagine the elfin chant 
of impish spirit voices raised in derisive mockery of 
all things mortal, mingled with other softer, sweeter 
tones which seem to lament over the sins and follies 
of mankind. 

It is a troubled, embarrassing stillness, and to 
Bobs' infantile mind (who has prided herself upon 
her alphabetical prowess, over which she has strug- 
gled, diligently studied in the proud, happy antici- 
pation of astonished comments, plaudits), horribly 
annoying, wholly ungrateful. 

Alas, little maid ! Like many another older, wiser 
head, you have unfortunately seized the wrong theme 
and opportunity to distinguish yourself. Thus, if 
your heart is filled with indignant chagrin, who is 
to blame ? 

197 



198 Black Butterflies 

The stifling, awkward silence stays unbroken save 
by an occasional angry clamp of Nero's toothless old 
jaws as he snaps crossly at a brilliant, sapphire- 
winged dragon-fly which is pestering him unmerci- 
fully by darting hither and thither across his nose 
or flittering aggravatingly before his sleepy eyes, 
seriously interfering with his afternoon nap — or else 
the shrill, incessant chattering of a little stonechat 
perched upon one of Venus' swelling busts — calling, 
scolding its truant mate who, scornfully ignoring his 
wee wife's upbraidings, is faithlessly carrying on a 
bare-faced flirtation and is in amorous persistency 
pursuing a pert brown sparrow, who, having for 
the nonce caught his fickle fancy (and like all female 
things when conscious of their power) is coyly allur- 
ing, leading him a merry dance from rose bush to 
shrub, until his spouse's conjugal feelings can stand 
the sight no longer and with a last angry squawk 
she takes flight, leaving the guilty pair to their own 
diversions and conscience. 

The lawn is crowded, for it is long past the noon 
hour and the guests at Castlewalls, sitting or loung- 
ing about in speechless awkwardness, have dined. 

" W— A— N— T— O— N— saint." 

Surely, thinks Bobs, whose baby forefinger has 
spelled, traced out the letters which form the word 
— surely they are all stricken with deafness or some 
other ailment, for dismay, consternation is plainly 



Black Butterflies 199 

decipherable upon every countenance, and still they 
do not speak. 

Rosamond's face blanches, her nostrils dilate, the 
delicate lines about the sensitive mouth contract and 
quiver, her eyes fill with a dull film like that in those 
of a wounded animal. 

Mrs. Fairfax commences to stammer something 
apologetically, when Bobs continues : 

" Everybody says her is a saint. Nursie has been 
learning me to read pen-writing, and " looking 
around with a puzzled, troubled expression for in- 
formation, " doesn't these wiggley letters on Rosey- 
mond's forehead say 'saint' — eh ? " 

The child's words are followed by grief so violent 
that the innocent author of it, now thoroughly 
alarmed, slips from the weeping woman's arms and 
scampers to Dacre's knee for safety, whilst tears of 
shame, contrition and humiliation stream unchecked 
from Rosamond's dovelike eyes. It is the first time 
in the whole course of her cruel martyrdom that any 
human has hinted at this affliction, and that a child 
should cover her with shame is agonizing. 

The sun ruffles and breaks the clouds; the long, 
yellow shadows steal, creeping ribbon-like, toward 
her, touch, kiss as if in sympathy the edge of her 
white gown. 

It seems so stupid, so heartless to sit in silence 
watching her sorrow, but what can they do ? There 
is that waste of sunlight separating them. Who will 



2oo Black Butterflies 



cross it to give consolation to this grief-distraught 
woman who finds it so easy, so natural, and is never 
loath to administer comfort to others ? 

" Come, Bobs," cries Invorarity, in a mad attempt 
to avert further painful complications, " Come, 
Bobs; let us go and feed the goldfish." 

" O, glorious inspiration ! O, blessed fish ! " says 
Dacre, sotto voce. 

" Come," entreatingly. 

" I won't," whimpers Bobs, whose soul is filled 
with trepidation and future mysterious forebodings. 
" I won't ! There's a nasty old swan there ; her's got 
chickens, an' is cross, an' always tries to bite me." 

" Do come, Bobs," pleads Julian Dacre, " I'll go 
and chase her away." 

" Yes, yes ! " joyfully. " Let us all go." 

" I'll wring her neck," bloodthirstily asserts the 
phlegmatic Mr. Hyde. 

" So will I — and I," echo several voices, frantic- 
ally seizing this blessed chance of escape, and Bobs 
submits to their boastful or tearful entreaties. 

The men, in their moral cowardice of a woman's 
tears, flee. 

Emoclew, now the sole representative of the male 
element, who has been quietly reading, seemingly ob- 
livious to the foregoing incident, flings aside his 
book, arises and steps across the glowing space. 

At his approach Rosamond lifts her hand, half im- 
ploring, half commanding; but with his soft, low 



Black Butterflies 201 

" Pardon, with your permission," suffers him to take 
the seat beside her. 

Rather shyly she raises her eyes, about which 
violet shadows lie, for a moment, and catches, reads 
in his look a meaning which causes her heart to 
quicken, throb as it has never yet done at the glance 
of any man, and within, past the innermost recesses 
of her being, at the very sanctuary of her life itself 
arise a troop of hitherto unknown, glad, undefined 
longings, kneeling in homage and adoration before 
him. 

As Rosamond sits with bowed head, pondering 
upon what basis has she for the foundation of this 
sweet, delusive dream, the golden sunbeams have 
shifted, and like the strong, slender fingers of the 
dear Creator's mighty hand rest as if in mute, loving 
benediction upon her smooth, dark head. Every 
faculty of her soul seems concentrated in an en- 
deavor to fathom this divine feeling. 

Nothing but casual, commonplace remarks, the 
merest civilities of society, have ever passed between 
Emoclew and herself since their brief acquaintance. 
Yet she knows instinctively that this sympathy is 
deep-rooted, his admiration an involuntary tribute 
to her womanly purity and grace — sincere. An un- 
known new influence has seized, stirred to its deep* 
est depths her virgin soul, and asserting its right, 
answers affirmatively in responsive passion to his; 
a faint, rebellious sense of pain intrudes, associating 



202 Black Butterflies 

her thoughts regarding his dalliance with Mrs. De- 
maris. Is it jealousy? Nay, surely not that. What 
is it then ? Since his advent, too, a wild resentment 
has arisen in Rosamond's gentle breast against the 
false, hideous letters branded on her brow, and 
against that dead husband whose unfounded sus- 
picion has marked, banned her an alien from her 
kind. Rosamond is not a vain woman, and if she 
regrets her disfigurement it is simply prerogative to 
her sex, for countless generations, to charm by per- 
sonal appearance the one they love. 

" I am foolishly sensitive," murmurs Rosamond, 
striving to smile a welcome, and nervously brushing 
the heavy crystal drops from cheek and lash. 

" And with good reason, dear Madam." The 
lawn is now totally deserted save by these two. He 
leans toward her, speaking low. At his words she 
lifts her hand, passing it quickly across her brow. 

" Yes, I have a fluid which I will guarantee to 
banish forever those unsightly letters upon your 
forehead. Will you permit me? I assure you it 
will be absolutely painless, harmless, and will leave 
the flesh unseared." 

Noting the swift, glad flash of acquiescence in his 
listener's eyes, Emoclew draws from his pocket and 
uncorks a small vial from which into his palm he 
slowly, carefully measures several silvery drops; 
then presses this same hand with contents for one 
moment tightly against Mrs. Arbuthnot's forehead, 




Into his palm he slowly measures several silvery drops." 

— Page 202. 



Black Butterflies. 



Black Butterflies 203 

rapidly passing it back and forth. And lo! When 
his hand is removed, Rosamond's brow is smooth, 
firm as marble, not a blemish nor sign visible. Those 
hateful letters are wholly, entirely obliterated. 



XVI 

" I speak not of men's creeds — they rest between 
Man and his Maker — but of things allow'd, 
Averr'd, and known, — and daily, hourly seen." 

" Humph ! What's he up to now, I'd like to know, 
stalking around at cock-crow without stopping to 
make any toilette to speak of." 

" I believe those are his regular habiliments when 
on his native heath," answers Julian Dacre, " and 
the secret of his early rising may be attributed to 
the same cause as your own." 

" I — I — " stammers the lady — " I came out at my 
maid's suggestion, to try the dew from off the leaves 
and flowers. Marie says there is nothing to com- 
pare with it for the complexion." 

" Ha ! That may also explain Mr. Emoclew Rao's 
early appearance. His complexion could stand a 
little improvement." 

" Bah ! " tartly, " nothing short of a miracle could 
do that. He's a regular Blackamoor. He had the 
impudence to salute me in those abominable things, 
and said something about me reminding him of 
Perdita in the flower garden, — whoever the creature 

mav be " 

204 



Black Butterflies 205 

" Hold ! " cries Dacre. " I believe I've solved the 
mystery. This may be the month in which the Hin- 
doos celebrate the Hooly Feast. They bespatter 
themselves with a red powder called phang, and if 
that can't be procured, red pepper answers the pur- 
pose — and walk about in a Bacchanal state, with a 
garland of roses, tulips or thistles about their 
necks." 

" He professes to know something about the un- 
seen, doesn't he ? " asks Patrick Invorarity, with a 
side-wink at Dacre. " Quite a Mahatma sort of 
person, I'm told. In fact, a regular Mephisto- 
phelean." 

" Yes," acquiesces Mr. Dacre, " it's awfully awk- 
ward, 'pon my honor ; you'll have to contrive to keep 
out of his clutches, Mrs. Stryker. I verily believe 
he has a contract with His Satanic Majesty." 

" Pshaw ! I defy him to find his stupid Mar- 
guerite in me; I'm made of sterner stuff. Ah " 

with a little scream, " here he comes now, indecent 
clothes and all." 

" Run, darlint," cries Invorarity, " run, I implore 
you, and save an unnecessary shock to your inherent 
modesty." 

But while the lady hesitates, Erlynde and Emo- 
clew-Houssein Rao pause to wait for Nero, who is 
slowly ambling on behind. 

Priscilla sees that the chance of her life has come, 
and being in fine fettle for an argument, doesn't 



206 Black Butterflies 

propose to miss it. And if she can nonplus this 
audacious heathen — as she delights in designating 
Emoclew, who frequently brushes her ideas aside 
like cobwebs and has, too, a most provoking pro- 
pensity for sandwiching nasty, sarcastic little re- 
marks and innuendoes between her speech, so amus- 
ing to the listeners but which has a decidedly exas- 
perating effect upon Mrs. Stryker — it is clearly her 
privilege and duty to do so. 

Thus it is not difficult to diagnose the lady's 
antipathy toward Emoclew, who is certainly a most 
disturbing element, and furthermore shows a de- 
cided tendency to infringe on her domains. And 
therefore the joy of disputing her empire and queenly 
rights is not to be lost; consequently Priscilla is 
grimly bent upon making an example of this in- 
terloper, and give him to understand she is not to be 
trifled with; and accordingly awaits, firmly deter- 
mined to render herself as disagreeable as possible 
— an easy task for Mrs. Stryker. 

As they slowly approach, Emoclew conspicuous 
in the distance by his Oriental costume — what is the 
problem of this woman's vindictive nature? Pos- 
sibly the mere pleasure of clashing ideas; for no 
sooner has she caught sight of her prey than she 
becomes quite amiable. She laughs gaily at a sally 
from Invorarity, and, snapping a wall-flower from 
its brittle stalk, sticks it in her dust-colored hair. 



Black Butterflies 207 

For the immediate prospect of a wordy war stimu- 
lates Mrs. Stryker as would an alcoholic draught. 

" I'd be a butterfly born in a bower 
Where lilies and violets and roses meet," 

blithely warbles she, in her high, shrill voice, hop- 
ping mincingly about, the tips of her fingers resting 
on Grosvenor's arm. 

" She's in a most delightful humor this morn- 
ing," says Hume, dreamily watching the lady as she 
loiters amongst the shrubs and flowers. 

" Charming," agrees Kath. 

" Never saw her quite so pleasant before," avers 
Invorarity. 

" Perfectly angelic," replies Valentine Hume, 
touching a match to his cigarette. 

" Wonder what has happened," queries Invorar- 
ity. 

" Happened ? - iterates Dacre, mournfully. 
" Good Lord, man ! It's not what has happened ; it's 
what's going to happen." 

" Yes, she's got something up her sleeve, sure 
enough," acquiesces Kath, moodily. 

" You can depend on it," answers Dacre. 

" Why ! " exclaims Invorarity, as Priscilla, sud- 
denly standing on tip-toe, snatches Grosvenor's hat 
which she coquettishly perches upon her own brows. 
" Why, she's positively growing playful ! First she 
wanted to be a butterfly, and now " 



208 Black Butterflies 



" Just wait," interposes Dacre, gloomily, " and 
see what she's up to." 

" True," answers Hume, meditatively, " I've 
never seen her in such a mood that there wasn't the 
deuce to pay." 

" Nor anyone else, either," answers Dacre. 

" Wonder what she'll do next," laughs Kath. 

" Don't know," sighs Invorarity, shaking his 
head ; " wouldn't dare venture a guess ; however, 
nothing would surprise me now, though ; she might 
stand on her head, perhaps, or," moodily, " kiss 
somebody, or — or else " 

" Kill somebody, more likely," retorts Dacre. 

" It's extremely evident that someone's going to 
catch the dickens," says Val Hume, placidly puffing 
his cigarette. 

" I'm afraid it's me," answers Kath dolefully. 
" Bobs told her something I said the other night, 
and I've been momentarily expecting my doom ever 
since." 

" No, no ! " shivers Invorarity. " It's me, bedad ! 
I can feel it in me bones." 

" I may be the culprit," says Mr. Hume, casting 
aside his cigarette. " I accidentally stepped on her 
gown last evening, and tore a yard or so of the 
puffles — er — what-de-ye call 'em, eh? Oh, yes! — 
ruffles, off." 

" No, I'm the one must suffer," sighs Dacre. 
" Yesterday I unthinkingly remarked what a thun- 



Black Butterflies 209 

dering fine-looking couple Teddy and Peg would 
make, and," sadly, " I'm reconciled to whatever pun- 
ishment is in store for me." 

" Oh, then," cries Kath in relieved tones, " she 
may pitch into us all together; if so," cheerfully, 
" we can easily withstand any onset. There is 
strength in numbers, you know, and surely we are 
equal to her, alone and single handed, eh ? " 

" No," answers Julian Dacre, gloomily wagging 
his head, " not if she charges at us full tilt and " 

" Leaves us all dead or dying on the field of 
battle," sadly interpolates Hume. 

" Dead or dying? " repeats Dacre. " She'll leave 
us all slaughtered; there won't be one left to tell 
the tale." 

" Things are beginning to look serious," sighs In- 
vorarity dismally, as Mrs. Stryker, reaching up to 
adjust Grosvenor's necktie, now stands with both 
hands resting on that gentleman's shoulders, smiling 
archly into his eyes, the straw hat cocked rakishly 
to one side. " She's liable to make an attack at any 
moment, and knock us into smithereens." 

" Jove ! Yes ! " groans Dacre. " She's getting 
worse and worse, if " 

" Faith ! " cries the Irishman in mock terror, loud- 
ly chattering his teeth together. " I think we'd bet- 
ter skedaddle while there's yet time, eh ? " anxiously. 
" Flight, in a desperate case of this kind, is the better 
part of valor." 



210 Black Butterflies 

" Too late," answers Dacre sorrowfully, for Er- 
lynde and Emoclew, the subject of their recent dis- 
cussion, approach. The latter has, by some im- 
pulse, discarded his European dress for Oriental 
robes in which he looks very handsome and pictur- 
esque indeed, with a snowy coif twisted about his 
head and a long, white gama bound at the middle 
with an embroidered scarf. 

Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, after taking a quick, keen 
survey, accepts the situation in secret glee, complains 
of faintness and asks for a glass of water. 

" There's no water here, Ma'am, but perhaps a 
little of this brandy will revive you," answers In- 
vorarity, solicitously producing from his pocket a 
flask. " Try to swallow a drop or two — do." 

But she happily recovers without the required re- 
freshment. 

" The top of the mornin' to ye," cries Mr. Invorar- 
ity blithely, as the two men approach. 

" Jove ! " says Dacre, eying Emoclew approv- 
ingly. " What a refreshing sight you look in all 
that cool white toggery." 

Emoclew, after making some complimentary re- 
marks to Miss Brabazon and Mrs. Stryker (who ap- 
parently takes due umbrage at his native attire), 
commences talking on different subjects. 

" Oh, how good it is to live ; surely, the sky was 
never quite so blue!" enthusiastically cries Kath, 
throwing out her arms in girlish exuberance of 



Black Butterflies 21 1 

spirits. " Such a deep, pure blue as in England, and 
the sun — dear old Sol! does he ever shine as bright 
in any other land ? " turning to Emoclew. " Surely 
you ought to know; does he? " 

" Yes, awfully jolly place, England," soliloquizes 
Invorarity. " Perfect Arcadia ; no one can find fault 
with it.' , 

" I love the sun," cries Kath, stooping to pick a 
white-faced fuchsia framed in its crimson bonnet, 
which she sticks amid her short, boyish curls. Kath, 
in a delicate mauve muslin, is looking exceedingly 
sweet and dainty. " I love, adore the sun ! " 

a I see you are not proof against its rays, though," 
sneers Priscilla Stryker, who has been impatiently 
awaiting an opportunity to say something nasty. 
" How dreadfully sunburnt you are getting. I de- 
clare, you are positively brown as a salamander. 
You should really be more careful; your skin is 
about your only good point. And that red flower 
dangling in your hair is so unbecoming." 

" Yes, I know I'm a perfect fright, but I feel like 
a lotus-eater this morning." 

" She doesn't mind her appearance as long as she 
finds favor in my artistic eyes," drawls Dacre. 

" The glare of the sun makes me as blind as a 
bat," says Mrs. Stryker, lamely apologetic for the 
use of Grosvenor's hat. 

" Possibly," answers Dacre, who has come gen- 
erously to Miss Brabazon's rescue ; " but when one 



212 Black Butterflies 

is but eighteen one can stand the most searching sun- 
light, eh, Katherine mia? And you look a regular 
Peri this morning in that gown." 

" No accounting for taste, jeers Mrs. Lighton- 
Stryker," and, discharging this poisoned arrow she 
feels happier and relapses into an almost amicable 
state again. 

" What a glorious thing life is," says Miss Brab- 
azon, plucking another fuchsia which she listlessly 
pulls to pieces. 

" Faith ! Life is a game of chance," shouts In- 
vorarity. " Hurrah ! More power to the winner ! " 
Then waxing sentimental, "Life ! Life — what is 
it? Can we answer more plainly than the insects? " 
touching with the toe of his boot a small black beetle 
crawling nimbly over the grass. " No ; we are 
things hatched by the elements." 

" Christianity teaches us different," answers 
Priscilla sharply. 

" Pardon, Madam," says Emoclew, " you Chris- 
tians, as you style yourselves, have borrowed your 
philosophy from Plato and Aristotle. You preach 
of your creed and the divine justice of your Creator, 
who, unless you are radically contradictory in your 
assertions, is to my mind plainly injustice personi- 
fied " 

" Oh—" cries Priscilla, " Oh " 



" Take for illustration the absurd fable of Cain 
and Abel. Did not your Deity — for some unex- 



Black Butterflies 213 

plained reason, or whim, rather — accept one broth- 
er's offering and reject with scorn the other? 
Where is the justice there, pray? " 

" We are taught not to question the Divine will, 
but to submit uncomplainingly to His methods," re- 
plies the lady, piously. 

" And yet, Christians, you who extol your Maker 
and religion as the foremost on earth, are the very 
ones for whom death holds the greatest terrors. 
You boast of your strength, blind faith in your be- 
lief " 

" We have faith/' says Mrs. Stryker, bridling 
up. 

" Then why so grossly belie it by the cowardice a 
Christian usually displays upon contemplating or en- 
tering that condition called death? Your childish 
idea of a hereafter is adjusted to please your own 
ludicrous notion and pleasure, which reality you 
fully delude yourselves into believing; and yet your 
nonsensical faith belies your belief, for you are the 
only humans who dread death. The Ascetics obey 
its summons without a murmur; you Christians 
alone cower, shrink at its call." 

" You talk like a heathen," crossly. " But then, 
to be sure, you are one, aren't you ? Don't you wor- 
ship images of stone or wood, or — er — something of 
that sort, eh ? " 

" What an unpardonably rude speech," says Miss 
Brabazon aside to Dacre. 



214 Black Butterflies 

" Good Lord ! yes ; she's true to her instincts. The 
worst-tempered woman in the world, and the rud- 
est." 

" Ha, ha ! " whispers Invorarity, nudging Julian. 
" This explains it; he's the one." 

" Jove ! Yes ! " grins Dacre. " Emoclew in the 
snare of the enemy." 

" Bet she'll find her Waterloo this time," says 
Hume gleefully. 

" I'll wager he'll meet her more than half way," 
answers Dacre. 

" Never thought she'd dare tackle him" whispers 
Invorarity admiringly, as Priscilla persists. 

"Don't you worship images, eh?" 

" Oh, Mrs. Stryker," entreats Kath, with crimson 
cheeks at that lady's rudeness. " He " 

" Tut ! " angrily retorts Priscilla, turning on the 
speaker with a scowl. " What does a silly chit of a 
girl like you know " 

" You'd better run for it, Mavourneen," whispers 
Invorarity aside to Kath, which advice the fright- 
ened girl speedily takes, and departs, leaving Mrs. 
Stryker sole mistress of the field, who continues : 

" See! " scornfully indicating Emoclew's raiment 
by a hand sweep. " See ! Such a rig is only worthy 
of a harlequin; but then, to be sure," sneeringly, " it 
is adorning one now." 

" My dear Mrs. Stryker," interrupts Dacre in 



Black Butterflies 215 

mirth-stifled tones, " pray don't be — er — personal ; 
he might " 

" Mind your own affairs ! " answers the irate 
woman, stamping her foot in passion. " I will ex- 
press myself to this — this person ! " It would be 
difficult to describe the slurring insolence conveyed 
in the last word — " I will express my views, as any 
Christian woman should, and " 

If Priscilla Stryker were wise, and not altogether 
blinded by fury, she would have hesitated long be- 
fore attacking so formidable a foe as Emoclew- 
Houssein Rao. She should have heeded, been 
warned by, the thunder brooding beyond the starry 
depths of his brilliant eyes, which gleam now with 
the deadly, fascinating intensity of the cobra — which 
Emoclew instantly assumes the aspect and attitude 
of — for ere her words cease, his head darts forth 
from the white coif with the swift, snake-like move- 
ment as that of the hooded serpent, and there is rage 
- — scathing rage — in his fiery glance as he hisses," 

" A Christian woman, you ? Bah ! A thing to be 
despised as a creature of intrigue and malice " 

" Whew ! Now she's getting a dampening down," 
gleefully mutters Hume. 

" And deserves it jolly well right, too," answers 
Dacre, sotto voce, as the lady tearfully turns to In- 
vorarity, angrily stuttering : 

" I appeal to you for protection, Mr. Invorarity. 
Why, oh, why ! " clasping her hands, " do you re- 



216 Black Butterflies 

main passive while I am so grossly maligned 
and " 

But Emoclew, cutting her words short, continues, 
though in a milder strain. The glitter has left his 
eyes; the venom his lips, while the cadence of his 
voice has grown wonderfully sweet in its mournful, 
prophetic, dreamy intonation, and the musical cur- 
rent of words sweeps, rippling in firm conviction 
from his mouth. He continues : 

" The Christian era will pass, nay, is passing now. 
It has lasted, held sway, long enough — too long. 
Another faith will succeed, usurp it. Your once 
mighty nation is dwindling to decay. Ah, you exotic 
Anglo-Saxons ! Whilst you have been busy losing a 
world, the Ascetic-Orientals, outstripping you in en- 
durance and science, have been quietly but surely 
gaining one; and are now, with determined, steady 
rhythm of feet, advancing near, nearer, till they are 
at your very gates, and will spread, swarm like lo- 
custs over the length and breadth of your land, ex- 
tinguishing you completely. And whose fault is it? 
Your own. You who had the power and means 
grossly slighted, neglected the chance, till now, now 
it is too late. Your puny posterity has almost ceased. 
The shrubs, bushes, bud, bloom ; the trees bear fruit ; 
the animals multiply. All, all willingly obey the uni- 
versal mandate, save she," nodding contemptuously 
toward the now cowed Priscilla. " The vaunted 
Christian woman: she who forfeits the world's re- 



Black Butterflies 217 

spect ; this thing, this creature of froth and folly, the 
only rebelling element, who, to her everlasting 
shame be it said, declines, absolutely refuses to per- 
form her bounden duty, to propagate her kind, and 
is therefore as useless as they," pointing toward a 
couple of black butterflies fluttering near. " Faugh ! 
Christian women are the direct instrument of race 
destruction. In ancient times a barren woman con- 
sidered herself accurst, whilst now, forsooth! the 
majority of her modern sisters deem motherhood a 
disgrace. 

" Take a lesson from the savages whom you 
would scorn to be classed amongst ; yet their women 
uncomplainingly bring forth, suckle their offspring. 
Discard your vanities! Live, and accomplish your 
life's mission. The world rests with you. Make 
your frail, sickly bodies strong, wholesome — both 
within and without; your brains clear, so that you 
can give to posterity men — fine, strong, athletic fel- 
lows ; not puny dolts and idiots ! 

" And yet," continues Emoclew, disregarding 
Mrs. Stryker's attempted remark, " and yet, who 
can blame you? Life, my friends, is a very trying 
ordeal. We humans are a lot of helpless puppets, 
dancing, smirking, bowing to the music and constant 
tugging of the string of circumstances. We are 
children and delight in fairy tales. We court 
glamour, not reality ; and seek diversity by thrusting 
fact-matter aside. We clutch, seize delusion as a 



2i 8 Black Butterflies 

drowning man catches a straw. Death, through life, 
is our bugbear." 

" And now, my friends," briskly exclaims Dacre, 
breaking the rather awkward silence which ensues, 
" now come ; breakfast is nearly over. I can see my 
sister madly signalling us the fact from the window." 

" What? " exclaims Invorarity, " breakfast nearly 
over ? Oh," groaning dismally, " and those de- 
licious muffins perhaps stone cold ! " 

When they enter the breakfast room a few people 
are still dawdling over their meal. 

" You naughty, bad mans," cries Bobs, sternly 
shaking a teaspoon at her Uncle Julian, but the lov- 
ing glance she bestows upon him utterly belies her 
anger, " You naughty, bad mans ! You is late." 

" I'm sorry, Bobs," patting the child's curly head. 
" Awfully sorry, but the truth is, I couldn't persuade 
Mrs. Stryker to let me leave her side." 

" Faugh ! " is the sole remark that lady vouch- 
safes, flouncing into her seat. 

" Oh, you laggards! " laughs Mrs. Demaris, mo- 
tioning for Emoclew to take the chair by her side, 
and looking charmingly cool and handsome in a 
crisp, white gown, the lovely color in her cheeks 
rivaling the rose at her bosom. " You are all very 
late. Mrs. Fairfax had some letters to write, and 
requested me to attend to your wants." 

' My wants are few," says Julian Dacre, helping 
himself to a plump pomegranate. 



Black Butterflies 219 

" So are mine," chimes Invorarity. " A muf- 
fin " 

" I've ordered some hot " 

" Oh, bless you " 

" Some hot chocolate and toast " 



"Toast?" echoes Invorarity, turning pale. 
" Toast ! Where's the muffins ? " 

" Gone. You'll have to be content with toast. 
Bobs devoured the last." 

"Oh, cruel Bobs!" 

"I didn't!" indignantly retorts Bobs. "Mr. 
Hyde eated 'em." 

" I thought so," grumbles Mr. Invorarity, mood- 
ily. " It's proverbial that from out of the mouth of 
babes comes wisdom and truth. Dear Mrs. Demaris, 
couldn't you manage to find a few? — er — bribe the 
cook?" 

" No," with a decided shake of the red-gold head, 
" no, cook's in a tantrum. She declares it's long past 
breakfast hours, and has given Trixie notice." 

"What?" gasps Mr. Hyde, in wild alarm and 
letting fall the peach from whose rosy cheeks he has 
been tenderly brushing the down. "What? Oh, 
surely not that ! Her patties and clear soups are the 
very finest I have ever tasted. Say, old chap," turn- 
ing to Erlynde, " implore her to change her mind. 
Raise her wages — anything, only don't, for my sake, 
don't — don't let her go ! " 



220 Black Butterflies 

" If it rests with me," laughs Guy, " I'll see that 
the threatened calamity sha'n't occur." 

" What's he has his nightie on for ? " queries 
Bobs, eyeing Emoclew disapprovingly. " Did he 
forgot his clothes ? " 

" Oh, hush, Bobs ! " entreats Miss Brabazon. 
" That's not a nightgown ; it's a — a — " 

" Shirt ? " interpolates the incorrigible Bobs. 

" I see she has inveigled that hateful Hindu into 
a flirtation," whispers Mrs. Stryker, still smarting 
keenly from her late encounter with Emoclew, to 
Jane Carew. 

" Yes, it looks rather like as if it were going to 
be a serious case," giggles the other. 

"Curious on her part," says Mrs. Stryker, her 
eyes resting on Lalage's beautiful profile. " She 
hooked him into it, though. It's plain to be seen 
that the wretch doesn't care a fig about her. She 
made a dead set at him from the very first." 

" One can hardly blame her. He's very handsome, 
I think," replies the other. 

" Hideous, I think, though she would give her 
eyes for him." 

" Queer, Dacre didn't jib when she threw him 
over. Your prophecy, my dear Priscilla, looks as if 
it were about to fail." 

" On the contrary," answers Priscilla, " things are 
going beautifully — just beautifully! " 



Black Butterflies 221 

" You still believe there is a probability that she 
and the hunchback may marry? " 

" For mercy's sake, speak lower ! Not a doubt 
about it. He's rolling in money. Don't you think 
his wealth will counterbalance his deformity ? " 

Across the table Kath is chatting gaily with Gros- 
venor and Invorarity, and the latter, despite the lost 
muffins, seems to be making a capital breakfast. As 
Miss Brabazon vigorously shakes her head at some 
bantering sally of Grosvenor's the fuchsia falls from 
her hair and alights upon the edge of his plate, and 
he picks it up and thrusts its stem through the lapel 
of his coat. 

" I had a little tiff with Mrs. Lighton-Stryker this 
morning," says Emoclew. 

" Indeed ? " answers Lalage, refilling his cup with 
chocolate. " I presume that, then, is the cause of 
your tardiness. Mrs. Stryker has a decided mania 
for adjusting everyone's affairs to suit her own ideas, 
and if she can't have her own way, there's sure to 
be war." 

" Yes, one has only to glance at her to know what 
a sweet, amiable creature she is," replies Emoclew. 
" Her name is charmingly pat and suited to her char- 
acter." 

" Yes, she is certainly a discordant character. 
Upon what subject was your argument ? " 



" Religion." 

it 



A dangerous topic," smiles Lalage, uplifting her 



222 Black Butterflies 



straight, narrow brows. "Politics would have been 
far safer." 

" Perhaps," agrees Emoclew, " though almost any 
subject would suffer at her hands. She and Miss 
Brabazon seem to be forever at it, tooth and nail." 

" Yes," answers Mrs. Demaris. " Kath's wonder- 
fully brave to contend with Priscilla Stryker; far 
braver than any of the others." 

"And you?" 

" I ? Frankly, I'm afraid of her, and so will you 
be when she fixes that basilisk eye of hers upon you ; 
and, besides, I'm under her ban." 

" Why? " asks Emoclew, folding his arms across 
his breast and leaning back. " Why ? " 

" She objects to my size." 

" Impossible ! " 

" A truth, I assure you. She doesn't like my 
style; she also credits me with numberless evil de- 
signs, finds fault with my complexion — skin, she 
calls it — takes exception to the color of my eyes, and 
utterly taboos my hair." 

" How unkind," answers Emoclew, softly, " to 
pick flaws in a goddess — a goddess amongst god- 
desses. Your beauty is evidently the head and front 
of her dislike." 

Oh, flatterer! laughs Lalage, blushing a deeper 
pink at Emoclew's compliment and adroitly chang- 
ing the subject by saying, " Mr. Erlynde tells us you 
are thinking of going away." 



Black Butterflies 223 



" Yes." 

"When?" 

et 



In a week or ten days." 

" Where? " eagerly. 

" Italy, first." 

"And then?" 

" I've not yet decided ; my movements are never 
certain." 

"You love Italy?" 

" I do. Give me France for wit and science ; Ger- 
many, virtue, stupidity; America, cleanliness, enter- 
prise ; England, wisdom and practicability ; but ah ! 
Italy — Italy is the home of Romance, Art and Love." 

She essays to speak again, but checks herself and 
turns her head aside that he may not read, see the 
bitter pain which suddenly fills, dims her eyes. 
Then, turning, makes a last effort. 

" You will remain away ? " 

" Indefinitely." 

For a short time longer they talk upon various 
matters, though Mrs. Demaris has not a very clear 
idea of what the subjects are, until arising from the 
table with forced gayety she cries : 

" Come, the sun is melting the butter and turning 
the cream sour ; we'll go into the drawing-room, it's 
cool there, and I'll sing to you. Come." 

As they pass Erlynde, Nero, who is crouched at 
his master's feet (the dog, for some strange reason, 
has always evinced a hatred for Mrs. Demaris), 



224 Black Butterflies 

growls ominously, furtively catches a fold of her 
dress and holds it an instant, unobserved, between 
his yellow fangs. 

And now Erlynde is left alone, he who through 
the foregoing exchange of brilliant raillery, compli- 
ments and conversation, remained silent, oblivious 
to it all, seemingly absorbed in his voluminous cor- 
respondence. Amongst so much happiness he alone 
was wretched, mingled feelings of anger, resentment 
and jealousy struggling within his breast. 

" Great God ! " he groaned, in silent anguish. 
" What an insane fool I am ! " 

And now — now the solitude he craved is his. The 
windows of the breakfast room are open to the lawn, 
through which the sweet morning air sweeps, rus- 
tling his papers from his hand and lightly touching 
his forehead. From the many feathered throats hid 
amid leafy branches comes the joyous song of glad- 
ness. But alas! the wind's soft kiss, caroling of 
birds and beauty of nature are powerless to soothe 
this stricken heart. 

Time passes; he is still there, his head resting on 
his hand. Gladsome laughter greets him. Merry 
voices call him from within. White hands beckon 
him from without. He heeds them not. Old Nero 
arises and lays his black muzzle upon his master's 
knee, gazing wistfully, with mute, loving sympathy, 
into the down-bent eyes. 

A woman's voice rings out strong, high, pure. 



Black Butterflies 225 

Lalage Demaris is singing the Mermaid's song from 
" Oberon," and when that ceases, 

"When, in thy dreaming, Moons like these shall shine again, 
And daylight beaming, Prove thy dreams are vain," 

sings Dacre. 

Yet still he does not stir. And so they — the man 
and dog, and that something else which the Fates 
are surely procreating — remain alone and undis- 
turbed. 



XVII 

"The shrug, the hum or ha, these petty brands 
That calumny doth use — O, I am out — 
That mercy does, for calumny will sear 
Virtue itself: these shrugs, these hums and ha's." 

— Winter's Tale. 

" You look seedy, old chap ; in fact, completely 
bowled over. What's the cause? Nothing wrong 
eh? I'm afraid that fiend ennui has you in his 
clutches." Then, catching the other's eyes resting 
upon the tall, swaying figure sauntering with un- 
conscious grace about the bed of tiger lilies, a great 
sheaf of tiger lilies in her arms, a tiger lily in her 
hair, " Ah! That's the star you sail by, is it? " 

And by that exclamation, Erlynde knows Emo- 
clew has possession of his secret and denial would 
now be worse than useless. 

" Her face is like a lily; her hair an amber veil. 
She's the most beautiful woman I've ever met! " in 
defiant self-defense. 

" I don't quite agree with you," coolly. " In re- 
gard to beauty, Mrs. Arbuthnot is a vast deal more 
to my liking. Can't deny she's got a goodish head 
and figure; too animalish for me, though. In her 
taste and splendor she's truly barbaresque." 

226 



Black Butterflies 227 

" I believe you'd resist Venus herself. She's a 
goddess," enthusiastically, "gloriously divine. See! 
she seems to catch the sunlight as she moves." 

"If you're so hard hit, why the blazes don't you 
go in and win ? " intently studying the other's face 
from between the half-closed lids of his keen, dark 
eyes. " The field's open, isn't it ? " 

At this blunt suggestion a feeling of dizziness 
assails him, joy gone mad riots in his heart. A 
sudden light gleams within his eyes. A brightness 
illumes his face. Then his countenance assumes the 
agonized, despairing expression a soul in purgatory 
might wear who, having been permitted one glimpse 
of heaven is shut from its sight as quickly as it came. 

" Don't mock me," he groans. " You might as 
well speak of mating a bird-of-Paradise with a sea- 
gull. Besides," bitterly, " what chance have I 
against you and Julian? " 

" Julian be dashed ! As for me," with a short 
laugh, " consider me out of the running altogether ; 
never aspired to the honor; not worth while. Faint 
heart ne'er won fair lady, and you possess that which 
has more magic than all else besides (in a woman's 
eyes). Gold, my dear Guy, reigns supreme." 

" You find it ' not worth while,' " repeats Erlynde, 
ignoring the latter part of his friend's disclaimer, 
" while I — I'd gladly give my soul for her possession 
— aye, and think it well lost." 

" Do nothing rash," sneeringly. " Don't barter 



228 Black Butterflies 



your soul for any woman living; they aren't worth 
it, and she least of all." 

Emoclew hesitates, fearing words too plainly ex- 
pressed might sever a friendship which he prizes; 
for Erlynde is regarding him in dumb wonder, look- 
ing the inquiry he dare not ask. Then recklessly 
continues : 

" What's the use in beating about the bush ? In 
plain words, she's a Sappho, who " 

" A Sappho, perhaps," quietly answers Erlynde. 
" The traditional Sappho was, I believe, small, dark, 
insignificant. No Phseon could resist this one — un- 
sullied, unattainable. A man's honor would be safe 
in her pure hands." 

" Don't be too sure on that score," sneeringly. 

Erlynde stands regarding Emoclew in blank as- 
tonishment ; then, in a sort of frenzy, cries, " Hold ! 
How dare you assail her? Another word, and by 
Heaven ! I'll smite the infernal lie upon your lips ! " 

" Chut ! thrusting aside the menacing hands. " I 
believe you're as mad as a March hare over the in- 
fernal woman." 

" Upon what," asks Erlynde, sufficiently recover- 
ing his composure to speak with anything like his 
usual quietude, " upon what slanderous gossip do 
you base your allegations ? " 

" None," drily ; " yet do you think she pays old 
Demaris the compliment of remaining in virtuous 
widowhood? He whose memory, if report speaks 



Black Butterflies 229 

true, can only be a source of disgust and loathing 
to her? No, sensuality rests too plainly on those 
full, red lips of hers. This Sappho has found her 
Phseon, a counterpart of that other Phaeon whom 
Aphrodite transformed from an humble ferryman 
into a demi-god, an Apollo with the added glamour 
of the paint brush about him ; but unlike the Libian 
poetess, this is not a deathless passion, for she has al- 
ready wearied of her love and would willingly be- 
stow her light favors elsewhere." 

" Even so," pausing, as a slight sound on the 
other side of the shrubbery distracts his attention 
for an instant, " even so," sneeringly, " taking 
everything you say for granted, I'd marry her like 
a shot if she'd have me." 

" I'm sorry for you, Guy ; 'pon my word I am. 
It's hard lines," taking Erlynde's hand and holding 
it with womanly gentleness. " When this confounded 
love trance seizes one, it's horrible." 

" You think me a fool ; but am I a man of stone ? 
And by God! I'm mad, Emoclew — mad with love 
for her." 

" Yes, I see that," drily, " head over heels in love." 

" Yes, desperately, irrevocably," groans Erlynde. 

" It's providential that I'm here to look after you. 
Better leave England for awhile, till this madness 
blows over," speaking tenderly, as if soothing a re- 
bellious child. " Come with me to Italy. Little 



230 Black Butterflies 



Nestora will cheer you up; then later we'll go cub 
hunting, eh ? " coaxingly. 

" What good would that do ? " moodily. 

" Bring you to your senses, if nothing else," curtly 
answers Emoclew. 

" I cannot," sadly replies Erlynde. Andromeda 
chained to the rock is no more helpless than I. Fate 
has transfixed me firmly here, and from here, where 
she is, I cannot move, It is heaven to be near her, 
to hear her speak." 

" Then," anxiously, " what will you do ? " 

" Don't know," shortly ; " grin and bear it, I sup- 
pose." 

" Well, remain here, then ; but listen, pay heed to 
this and remember, Guy : Don't allow the skirts 
of your Wisdom to get caught between the ponder- 
ous doors of Passion and Obstinacy." 

**S* ■*■!* ■»'' -»'" *'- vV ^1' "*V 

<»j* *j* *j* *j% j^ xj*. ^* ^^ 

A worthy daughter of the Pharaohs she stands, 
whose feet were wont to tread panther skins and 
Nile-rushes, and within whose sultry eyes lurk 
shadows, secrets of the East's hidden past; secrets 
of countless arts long dead ; of strife, intrigues, con- 
fidences exchanged — betrayed; all, all slumbering 
amid the inscrutable depths of her languorous, dark 
eyes, as she leans, with both strong hands glistening 
with gems, heavily upon the frail dressing-table lit 
tered with costly baubles so requisite to a luxury- 
loving woman's needs. 



Black Butterflies 231 



One could imagine her reclining amongst soft 
cushions, floating upon the Cydnus, surrounded by 
ebon-skinned attendants eagerly alert to obey the 
slightest disdainful glance of their imperious mis- 
tress whose beauty — that strange, maddening beauty 
— had captured Caesar, enslaved Antony, and yet 
whose charms were powerless to conquer Octavius. 

One could imagine all this and more, as she leans, 
contemplating her reflected loveliness from off which 
the loose gown has slipped, revealing the matchless 
arms, neck — with its haughty, small head — and 
shoulders gleaming whiter, smoother than Italian 
marble — a delightful contrast to the golden hair and 
tiger lily therein. And now, after this long survey, 
the anguish on that face is terrible. The discarded 
Eurydice, brooding over her wrongs, and, perchance, 
mentally picturing Bernice's younger charms, or, 
perhaps, an Egyptian woman who loved the detes- 
table Ptolemy Alexander, might, when listening to 
this craven when fighting for his worthless life in the 
public gymnasium, have worn such a look. As a 
shuddering breath arises, every nerve tingles with 
shame; its pink flush spreading from face to neck, 
as now, for the first time, she fully realizes the true 
depth of her own degradation. 

In an abandonment of despair the woman sinks 
upon the floor, hiding her scorching face between 
both hands; yet no sigh nor tear escapes her whose 



232 Black Butterflies 



sufferings are too intense to find relief by such 
means. This grief is far beyond that. 

Lalage Demaris has received a mortal wound; 
and by the hand she loves best on earth. Yet there 
is no anger against him whose interest in his friend's 
behalf rendered his words, in her unintentionally lis- 
tening ears, so cruelly brutal. No anger against the 
vain, shallow mother and pompous domineering- 
father who, in her youth, had sold her. No anger 
against him whose gold had bought — whose coarse 
hand had brushed the fresh, maiden bloom from her 
shrinking chastity. 

No — no resentment against any of these. But a 
wild, furious anger against one; and arising, she lifts 
from the floor and replaces the fallen garment about 
her, slowly turning to earnestly regard a face — a 
fair, handsome, bonhomie face — surmounted by 
crisp, light hair, in a frame opposite, whose mouth 
seems to the woe-stricken woman's distorted imagin- 
ation twisted with devilish derision at her humili- 
ation. As she looks, a slight smile, difficult to define, 
parts her lips; her breast and shoulders heave spas- 
modically. Lifting from the table a dainty, orna- 
mental dagger, she mechanically toys with its jew- 
eled handle an instant, then flings, sends it with 
even, deadly aim through the canvas, pinning the 
smiling lips firmly to the wall. Then, tossing both 
arms high above her head, laughs, shrill, discord- 
antly — laughs till the room rings and the various 



Black Butterflies 233 

guests, scattered throughout the spacious rooms of 
Castlewalls, smile in unison, wondering at her 
mirth, laughs, till its echoes reach the servants' ears, 
who enviously comment upon the gayety of their 
betters. 

" What jolly times they do be 'aving," sighs Judy, 
the tired scullery maid, snuffing the candle with red, 
work-begrimed fingers. Then, disconsolately resum- 
ing the brushing of her scant, ashy locks before the 
mirror whose cracked surface rudely reflects her 
ugly, freckled face, " wot jolly times they do be 
'aving. 'Ow I wisht I was one hov 'em bloomin' 
quality folk, who 'ave hall the 'appiness and nothink 
to worrit about." 



XVIII 

" You say, when ' I rove, I know nothing of love ; s 
'Tis true I am given to range; 
If I rightly remember, I've loved a good number, 
Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change." 

" Out upon you ! " thunders Mr. Maggs, who has 
again come to loggerheads with Kate, Mrs. Demaris' 
maid. " Out upon you, for a worthless, crack- 
brained Jezebel, gadding around with that lick- 
spittle forever dangling at your heels." 

" He isn't a lick-spittle," indignantly retorts the 
girl, who is finding her path strewn thickly with 
thorns of domestic strife. " He isn't a lick-spittle, 
I'll let you know, and I'll stick to him through thick 
and thin." 

" Silence, you baggage ! " bellows Maggs. 

" Tehee !" titters Judy, the scullery wench, who, 
having been unable to make any impression on hand- 
some Paolo's heart, now basely seizes the opportun- 
ity for revenge. " Tehee ! Hi sawr 'im a-kissing 
hov 'er down by the west gate last night, 'e " 

" It's a lie ! " cries poor Kate, flaring red. 

" Hit ain't," doggedly. " Hi sawr 'im with my 
hown two blessed heyes, a-kissing 'er an' a-'olding 
hov 'er 'and, an' a-squeezing hov 'er waist. Hit 'orri- 

234 



Black Butterflies 235 

fied me, hit did, hindeed." And at this point of rec- 
ollection the speaker lifts the corner of her grimy 
apron and commences to blubber. Then, after wip- 
ing her eyes and casting a vindictive glance toward 
pretty Kate, continues: 

" Hand, whenever she sees 'im a-coming, she 
marches haround has bold has brass, an' commences 
a-singing an' a-'umming, ' 'Ere the Conquering 'Ero 
Comes,' just has hif 'e was the Hemperor hov Chiner 
hor King Hedward 'imself." 

A groan from a score of throats succeeds this 
speech. Judy has the whip hand, which fact she 
knows and fully intends to make use of. 

" Well, well," mournfully ejaculates Mrs. Burton, 
jingling her keys nervously, " there'll be something 
to pay soon, and no mistake. Them's my senti- 
ments." 

" Hand mine too, hexac'ly," says the scullion, 
tragically brandishing a scrubbing brush, " has sure 
has heggs is heggs." 

" And mine — and mine," cry almost the entire 
household staff of flunkeyism, who seem to be in a 
complete state of revolt against Paolo, whom they 
persistently regard as an interloper. 

" Bah," retorts the persecuted maid, " you are like 
a lot of frogs, always croaking." 

" Hoity-toity," snaps the housekeeper, sharply, 
" you should learn to treat us with proper respect, 
Miss." 



236 Black Butterflies 

" You're none too quick with respect to others," 
truthfully answers the girl, verging on tears. 

" Respect," angrily roars the blustering old butler, 
" respect for you, you jade? We " 

" Stow that," orders a threatening voice some- 
where in the rear, and for a moment pandemonium 
reigns at this unexpected interruption, interference, 
by one of the grooms, an interference inspired by a 
generous desire to champion the absent Paolo and 
the hapless girl pitted against so many. 

Who knows? Perhaps there is a trace of noble 
blood, inherited from long-past, long-forgotten an- 
cestors, in this humble stable-man's veins — ancestors 
who, clad in knightly armor, fought valiantly for 
love and country, whose swords were ever readily 
unsheathed to redress a wrong or gallantly assfst 
Beauty in distress. Devil-may-care fellows, who 
died with laugh or song upon their brave, careless 
lips; and now, doubtless, that one drop of gentle 
blood, which naught can ever quench, which sparkles 
as a radiant diamond set in a dung-hill, instantly 
awakening, asserts itself, and, coursing like molten 
lava through this man's hitherto sluggish veins, 
compels hereditary chivalry, as he repeats : 

" Stow that! d' you 'ear?" Then, in a calmer 
tone. " Wot's yer hall a-'ollering an' a-'owling 
habout, Hi'd like to know; 'anged hif Hi wouldn't." 

" Hit's hall along hof that hinfernal Hitalian," 
replies the scullery maid. 



Black Butterflies 237 

" Wot hov 'im ? 'E's a fust-rate sort hov chap has 
fur has Hi can see." 

" Then, Jem Feathers, you're a thundering block- 
'ead," sneers a tall footman. 

" An' you be a passel hov blooming blowpipes, " 
coolly says the groom, whose correct appellation of 
aristocratic " Featherstonhaugh " has dwindled into 
the plebeian abbreviation of " Feathers." " Yes, 'e 
's a fust-rate sort hov chap, has fur has Hi can see, 
hand hif 'e likes the lasses a bit too well wot's the 
'arm; many's a better an' wiser cove 'as done the 
same." 

This philosophic boomerang has the effect of si- 
lencing them, but only momentarily. 

" His master carries a bottle of brimstone around 
in his pocket," says another envious footman in 
awed tones. 

" Yes," eagerly echoes another, " and didn't he 
burn the letters off Mrs. Arbuthnot's forehead with 
it?" 

" 'E 's a saucerer," says Judy, " that's wot 'e his 
— a saucerer." 

"A saucerer! Bah, you ijits!" scoffs Feathers. 
" That's nothink but magnertism — ■ — " 

" Well," interpolates Judy, " yer can call hit mag- 
gotism, hor yer can call hit hipertism; but Hi calls 
hit Hold Nickism. Hi fully believes 'e 'as dealings 
with the Hold 'Un." 

" Pooh, wot do you know habout hit ? " scornfully 



238 Black Butterflies 

jeers Feathers, industriously whittling a stick with a 
bulky clasp-knife. " Hi fully believes 'as you be the 
hinstigator hov this 'ole trouble. Wot do yer know, 
anyway ? " 

" Hi hain't a-going," angrily expostulates the 
scullion, with arms akimbo, " Hi hain't a-going to 
cremate myself by saying 'arf Hi knows hor sus- 
spects, but " 

" Whot's the hoclds, wot yer knows hor suspects," 
turning to the others. " Why don't yer behave yer- 
selves like 'uman hindividuals, hinstead hov listen- 
ing to this 'ere lunertick's jabber " 

" Hi hain't a lunertick. Didn't yer — " appealing 
to Kate, " didn't yer say yerself has 'ow yer mis- 
tress frightened yer t'other night 'arf hout o' yer 
wits by laughing like a wild 'un? an' w'en the door 
was busted hopen they found 'er a-lying flat hon 'er 
back, cold an' stiff an' whiter nor death, han' shak- 
ing like a hasphaltum leaf, han 'as looked pale an' 
'oiler-eyed never since. An' there was a turrible 
murderous-lookin' knife a-sticking into Mr. Dag- 
ger's pitcher hon the wall ; an'," triumphantly, " an' 
hit's hall hon haccount hov them cussed Hindians 
has his casting hov their dierbolickal hinfluence an' 
mistick spells hover this 'ole 'ouse. Hi says it now, 
han' " 

" Hi'm thinking," says Feathers laconically, 
" Hi'm thinking that yer jealerous " 

"Jealerous?" 



Black Butterflies 239 

" Yes, yer jealerous hov Paoly. Yer wants 'im 
fur a sweetart, an' cause yer can't 'ave 'im " 

" Hit's er lie ! " cries the girl shrilly, " hit's ha 
hinfernamous lie. Hi've guarded hagainst 'im from 
the fust." 

" Oh, yer 'ave, 'ave yer? " sneeringly. 

" Yes, Hi 'ave. Hi'm prepared. Hold Muther 
Sorrell, the gypsy, gave me some plasters to guard 
hagainst such hevils, an' Hi've got 'em hon my hel- 
bows an' hon my 'eels. Hi says hit now, an' Hi've 
said hit from the fust ah ! " 

With a shrill scream the speaker suddenly breaks 
off, as she catches sight of a pair of laughing, dark 
eyes regarding her from the doorway. 

"What's up?" says the owner, courteously rais- 
ing his cap before entering, and looking remarkably 
handsome in a natty suit of velveteen. " What's up, 
Carina?" blithely addresing Kate, as they all draw 
back at his approach. " 'Pon my word, they look 
like a lot of sheep frightened by a wicked wolf." 

" Yes, we be," mutters the scullery lass, sullenly, 
" afeared hov a wolf hin sheep's clothes." 

" Eh ? " bowing mockingly before Judy. " Eh, 
sweetlips? What's the row, Feathers? " turning to 
the only friendly face amongst that sea of scowling 
countenances. " What are the duffers driving at ? " 

" Hit's nothink. They — they be a bit hexercited," 
lamely, in a loyal attempt to screen his mutinous 
associates. " A bit hexercited, that's hall." 



240 Black Butterflies 

" Humph ! " answers Paolo, aggravatingly twirl- 
ing his whip. " Humph ! " 

" Humph ! " repeats Kate, who, now that her lover 
is near, regains courage. 

And then the silence remains unbroken, save by 
the sharp, hissing switch of the whip, until simul- 
taneously, after a muttering tumult of incoherent 
words, two powerful footmen spring suddenly for- 
ward, firmly pinioning the Italian's arms. A crowd, 
with wildly-gesticulating hands, surround him, who 
stands helpless, pale and cool in their midst, whilst 
a pair of hands with brawny fingers encircle his 
slender throat, when 

" Good Lord, men, are you mad ? " 

They fall back and slink away like whipped 
hounds, for Erlynde, with Emoclew by his side, is 
regarding them in amazed disapproval. 

" What do you mean ? " asks the master of Castle- 
walls, "by allowing this rumpus?" 

And while the butler stammers awkwardly, Paolo 
shakes himself with a careless, free laugh, and, re- 
placing the fallen cap jauntily upon his head, leaves 
his assailants stupid, dumfounded at their master's 
unlooked-for appearance. 

" Feathers," says Mr. Erlynde, who, having noted 
the stable-man's futile efforts to stem the recent riot, 
now regards the faithful fellow with new and kindly 
interest, " Feathers, I wish to see you in my study 
at ten tomorrow morning," and taking the aston- 



Black Butterflies 241 

ished hostler's hand, shakes it in a warm, friendly 
manner. 

Thus is merit occasionally rewarded, for by the 
clock which registers ten on the morrow, sees Feath- 
ers promoted to head groom of Castlewalls. 

And let us devoutly hope that Feathers' ascension 
will not cease there, but continue, step by step, till 
finally he reaches the pinnacle from whence he orig- 
inally sprang; which will surely come to pass, for 
even now a be-wigged judge and assistant colleagues 
are interestedly glancing, pondering over some cu- 
rious, important-looking papers, yellow and musty 
with age from their long detention in the slow, 
tedious Court of Chancery, and which mysterious 
documents will eventually restore him to former 
honor and prestige. 



XIX 

"Our life is twofold: Sleep hath its own world, 
A boundary between the things misnamed 
Death and existence : Sleep hath its own world, 
And a wide realm of wild reality." 

" Yes," soliloquizes Patrick Invorarity, flecking a 
small, green caterpillar from off his ear with a pink- 
tipped daisy which Bobs has just slipped between his 
fingers. " Yes, those wonderful castles which Ave 
spend the best days of our youth in erecting, when 
completed, merely awaiting occupancy — then, 
presto ! they cave in, tumble about our ears, the ruins 
blinding, choking us with their dust " 

This philosophy is cut short by Trixie, "Julian, 
don't you think you'd better give that seat to Guy ? " 
Mrs. Fairfax pauses an instant from the act of slic- 
ing a huge loaf of bread, to administer this rebuke 
to her brother. 

Trixie, attired in a blue muslin gown the exact 
shade of her eyes, and with the hem of its skirt 
pinned up tightly about her plump, shapely hips, 
thus showing the snowy, lace-berufrled petticoat 
from underneath which glints the tiny, high-heeled 
shoes, and — Mistress Trixie knows what she's about 
— a suggestion, just a wee suggestion, of trim, 

242 



Black Butterflies 243 

dainty ankles to be tantalizing, and with sleeves 
rolled up to her dimpled elbows, the pink glow of 
exertion on her peach-like cheeks, her golden hair 
twisted awry, in which a fallen oak leaf nestles, is 
looking ravishingly lovely ; indeed, a veritable Queen 
Mab — that is, if Queen Mab's pretty brows were 
puckered into an unbecoming frown. 

The truth of the whole matter is this: Every- 
thing seems to be at cross purposes, and Trixie's cal- 
culations likely to miscarry. Her cherished plans are 
at variance — sixes and sevens, so to speak. Truly, 
affairs are progressing badly; for instead of Guy, 
here is that stupid Julian monopolizing Mrs. De- 
maris' whole attention. It is really too discourag- 
ing ! while, to make matters doubly worse, Emoclew- 
Houssein Rao> — or whatever his tiresome name may 
be — is forever nagging at Guy to go gallivanting 
over the world again, just when she — Trixie — is 
most anxious for him to remain home where, now 
that the visitors are shortly leaving, affairs could be 
arranged so charmingly. But, the Fates have stuck 
their digits into this matrimonial pie, and Trixie 
fumes inwardly and is near — very, very near — what 
she never was in her life before, cross with Julian 
for being such an idiot and not seeing one inch be- 
fore his handsome nose. 

"Julian!" 

No response. 

" I honestly believe he's growing deaf as well as 



244 Black Butterflies 

stupid/' mutters Trixie. "Julian! " sharply. " Don't 
you hear me? I think you'd better give that seat to 
Guy, it's — " lamely, " it's so comfortable." 

" No, it ain't," answers Dacre ungrammatically, 
" it's got a beastly hump in the middle," wriggling 
about on the log. " Imagine I'm riding a camel. 
I've been begging Mrs. Demaris for the last half 
hour to move over to the beech-tree yonder, but," 
tranquilly, " she won't." 

" Did you ever hear such a donkey ? " says Dacre's 
sister, sotto voce to Trevor, who seems to be acting 
as a sort of aide-de-camp. " I vow, I'm tempted to 
cuff his ears. I verily believe he's doing it pur- 
posely to aggravate me." 

" Doing what? " asks Trevor, innocently. 

" Oh, nothing," laughing in some confusion. 
" Only — only I imagine Guy looks tired." 

" And so he does," agrees Mr. Trevor, " looks 
completely knocked over." 

" Eh ? " anxiously, " Do you really think so ? " 

Here is another evil to contend against ; they seem 
to be springing-up as thick as mushrooms. If Guy 
dies wifeless and childless — perish the thought ! — the 
whole of his wealth (Trixie shivers) reverts to a 
distant branch of the family. Such a dire catastrophe 
is truly appalling. But how to avert the issue, with 
Julian pulling one way and Guy the other? In the 
face of such a calamity, Trixie asks herself, was 



Black Butterflies 245 

there ever a poor woman so beset or put about as 
she? 

" Pooh," sneers Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, in reply to 
some whispered comment by Jane Carew regarding 
Peggie. " Pooh, she's always making love to some- 
body's husband, and if Edward wants to encourage 
her, I'm sure I don't object." 

" They've known each other since infancy," an- 
swers Miss Brabazon hotly, with a withering glance 
toward the two women. " No one could possibly 
make harm out of such friendship." 

" Oh, no, of course not," with that customary 
little snicker always so hateful to Kath's ears. " Oh, 
dear, no ; none whatever, eh, Jane ? " 

Mrs. Lighton-Stryker is in a most villainous tem- 
per this afternoon, and makes Peggie (who looks 
like a Naiad in her simple white gown and pale green 
ribbons) the butt of her spleen. 

The secret of the lady's ire can be traced to various 
causes : Firstly, the gown which she fully intended 
wearing, not being completed, she was therefore at 
the last moment compelled to don another, the deli- 
cate hue of which she well knows — but alas ! too late 
for remedy — has, under the clear, penetrating sky, 
turned her complexion — faulty at the best of times 
— horribly blotchy and sallow, thus making her ap- 
pear ridiculous amongst the others present. 

We can rail at the vanities of dress as much as we 
please, but to know one's self well and tastefully at- 



246 Black Butterflies 

tired is the pinnacle of womanly satisfaction ; it be- 
ing usually a powerful motor to confidence, reliance 
and self-esteem. Ill-clad persons of either sex are 
invariably at a grave disadvantage amid their fel- 
lows, and what is more galling to the evenly-bal- 
anced human heart than such knowledge ? 

For which sorry plight Mrs. Stryker blames her 
hapless maid, who basely persuaded her into the 
folly of wearing the " horrid rag," the term by 
which she designates the offending garment to Mrs. 
Carew's sympathetic ears — thus making a complete 
guy of herself ; and mentally settles to send the huzzy 
packing at the very earliest opportune moment. 

Secondly, the house party is now drawing to a 
close, and Mrs. Stryker is looking ahead with cha- 
grin at the unwelcome thought of departure. Castle- 
walls is an ideal retreat, and Trixie an admirable 
hostess, who, being luckily retarded by her own little 
affair, which will not permit her to place any too 
prudish restrictions upon another's conduct, allows 
her guests full sway. 

Thus, naturally, these events have tended to irri- 
tate Priscilla, with the present result — a temper com- 
pletely out of gear and as hopelessly past repair as 
that wonderful " Humpty-Dumpty " of our child- 
hood's story book (which required more than the 
united skill of all the King's horses and men to put 
together again) as she sits, savagely digging deep 
holes in the moss with the ivory end of her parasol 



Black Butterflies 247 

and watching a chance to say disagreeable " things'/ 
as Kath calls them. 

Yet, Mrs. Lighton-Stryker should not be judged 
too harshly. Faugh, my dears ! we are all tied to the 
apron-strings of Vanity — call it Folly, if you will, 
but then Folly and Wisdom are twins whom we 
fondly dandle on either knee. However, she is a 
discordant character, true enough, but her mind and 
disposition, from youth up, have been soured by re- 
peated disappointment and discontent, until vindic- 
tiveness has become a malady. She, like many an- 
other of her sex, has unwittingly cherished a pet in 
her bosom — an obnoxious pet called Animosity — 
which her arms have fondled, her bosom nourished, 
until now, full grown, vigorous, it has eventually 
gotten the upper hand, become her master, ruling 
her with a rod of iron, and like an ungrateful child, 
threatens to destroy her. 

The afternoon is delightful, and Trixie's visitors 
are enjoying a picnic beneath the trees in the further- 
most depths of the thickly-timbered forest. The 
scene, in the extreme, is entrancingly romantic. The 
sylvan glade which harmonizes so splendidly with 
the surroundings might be a scene from " Robin 
Hood," even including Mr. Hyde, standing with legs 
wide apart, munching half a pie, and the brilliant 
peacock, stepping expectantly about him, craning its 
long neck in fond but vain hopes of catching a few 
falling crumbs. 



248 Black Butterflies 

At a little distance Miss Padelford and Teddy 
Stryker, on their knees, are earnestly striving to 
kindle a fire. Peggie, with Mr. Stryker's straw 
hat, is fanning the sticks briskly, bravely unmindful 
of the smoke which audaciously kisses her sweet 
face; but the stubborn green fagots refuse to burn. 

" I'm thirsty," says Mr. Hyde, who, having de- 
molished the pie, advances, wiping his mouth. 
"Isn't the tea ready yet?" A negative shake of 
Peggie's head. " What a nuisance," in an injured 
tone, and stooping to select a choice apricot from 
amongst a lot upon the ground. " Can't you hurry 
it, Stryker? I'm about famished." 

" Hear the infernal ass," growls poor Teddy, look- 
ing up from the smouldering logs with streaming, 
smoke-filled eyes. " He's a perfect gourmand, and 
I swear thinks of nothing else in the world but feed- 
ing." 

" Yes," laughs Peggie, "Vivian has a perpetual 
appetite; that's an open secret. I overheard Judy 
declaring to Feathers yesterday that ' hall Mr. Tde 
thought habout wos 'is stumick.' " 

" Hi, Trevor ! " shouts Teddy, " Make yourself 
useful ; fill the kettle, will you ? " 

" Can't," roars Trevor, brandishing a murderous- 
looking knife aloft. " Got to help Trixie cut the 
bread." 

" Grosvenor," yells Teddy, "fill the tea-kettle." 

" Zounds ! " howls Grosvenor, who, squatted on 



Black Butterflies 249 

the grass with arms held stiffly at right angles, each 
thumb pointing skyward, around which is twisted a 
skein of gaily-colored silk which Mrs. Arrowes is 
deftly winding into a smooth round ball — " Don't 
you see I'm busy? " 

Teddy groans at this second rebuff, knowing fur- 
ther appeals for help will be futile, for Hume, seated 
with his back propped against a tree trunk, is read- 
ing aloud to Mrs. Carew ; Desmond, Mrs. Nettleton 
and several others are seated around a huge stump 
playing bridge whist with six-penny points, while 
Chatwin is patiently instructing Bobs in the art of 
daisy-chain manufacture, and Barnaby, blissfully un- 
conscious, is asleep, his head pillowed on (luckily 
for him Bobs' attention is engrossed with the daisy- 
chain) Bobs' doll. 

" Invorarity," bellows Teddy, wellnigh desperate, 
" Invorarity, will you fill the tea-kettle?" 

" No," placidly drawls Mr. Invorarity. " Faith, 
I've got other fish to fry." 

" Humph, the devil you have," grumbles Teddy. 
" I wish you were frying with 'em ! " 

At which heartless assertion Miss Padelford 
breaks into a fresh, merry peal of laughter, causing 
the timid deer, herded deep amid the fern, to sniff 
the air and erect their delicate ears inquisitively as 
to who is trespassing in their domain, and gnomes 
and pixies of the woods to echo, re-echo — with 



250 Black Butterflies 

goblin voices, arousing Mrs. Lighton-Stryker from a 
siesta to remark, lifting her fretful brows : 

" How vulgarly boisterous that Padelford girl is, 
to be sure." And then, " Can't you hurry, Edward ? 
I'm faint for a cup of tea. It seems to take ages to 
get that fire started ; I could have built twenty while 
you are dawdling over one." 

" Better come and try, then," growls Teddy, 
fiercely breaking a stick across his knee. " You'd 
not find it such a jolly easy job, I'm thinking." 

" I'll fill the kettle," cries Miss Brabazon, seizing 
the slighted utensil and fleeing with the speed of 
an antelope toward the spring which sparkles cool 
and clear beneath one of the big oaks near by. 

" Thanks, Kath ! You're a trump," says Teddy 
gratefully as she returns with the dripping vessel. 

" She's a great beauty, and no mistake," says Mrs. 
Carew, whose attention is caught by Lalage's low, 
soft laugh. 

" Oh, humbug! " flouts Priscilla, instantly aware 
to whom the other alludes. " Entirely too gigantic ; 
/ never could abide grenadiers and May poles." 

" Good gracious, yes ! " laughs Joan ; " she is big, 
but charming in a way, and " 

"Damn!" 

Sudden, sharp as a pistol shot comes this forcible 
epithet, while they all, spellbound, are still gazing 
at each other's lips suspiciously, and toward Joan 



Black Butterflies 251 

Nettleton in particular, who is ten shillings to the 
bad. 

" What? " ejaculates Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, scent- 
ing a quarry and sitting bolt upright in an instant to 
fix her spouse with a glassy stare. " Eh, was that 
you, Edward ? If so, such an expression, to say the 
least, is " 

"Damn!" 

It is repeated, and if possible more vehemently 
than before. 

" Oh, Bobs, for shame ! " protests Trixie, whose 
maternal knowledge is the first to pounce upon the 
guilty one. 

For Bobs it is, sure enough, who, happening to 
glance up from the daisy-chain and spying Barnaby 
and — his pillow, rips out the oath like a veteran, and, 
arising with fury in her eyes, strides (as well as a 
chubby pair of legs can stride) majestically toward 
the object of her wrath, and unceremoniously jerks 
the doll from beneath his head, which rolls (his 
head) with a dull thud upon the sward. 

" See ! " shrilly, see what you has did ? " 

"Eh?" ejaculates the culprit, rubbing his head 
and gazing about in bewilderment, " Eh, what's up, 
Bobs?" 

" You. You has rumpled Maudie's best frock, 
and is the worsest mans," severely, " the worsest 
mans I never did saw." 

After Bobs and Barnaby have adjusted their dif- 



252 Black Butterflies 

ficulties to the former's satisfaction, to wit : with the 
latter's solemn oath and promise of a boxful of doll 
clothes from London on the morrow, peace is once 
more restored. 

" Do you not occasionally experience a most ago- 
nizing dream and the relief upon awakening be a 
keen sense of joy and thankfulness to realize that 
it is only a dream ? " asks Mr. Invorarity, who is 
clearly in a most philosophic mood, and speaking in 
his loud, clear voice as he lies stretched full length 
at Mrs. Arbuthnot's feet. 

" Yes," answers Julian Dacre, " and many's the 
time, quite the reverse. I dreamed once I'd fallen 
heir to a fat fortune." 

" Now," continues Invorarity, scorning to heed 
this flippant interruption and tilting his hat further 
over his eyes to screen them from the sun sifting 
through the branches overhead, " now I often im- 
agine those dreams are, in truth, at the time actual 
realities, a test by the Almighty, don't you know, 
just to gauge our strength, and when, upon finding 
that He has chastened us heavier, or, in short, a bit 
too severely — more than our transgressions justify 
— mercifully relents and His powerful will changes 
that erstwhile punishment from fact into a mere 
hideous nightmare." 

" How about the pleasant dreams, eh ? " inter- 
rogates Mr. Dacre. " Are they too sweet to last ? " 

" The same principle precisely sways them both," 



Black Butterflies 253 

replies Invorarity, manfully stifling a tremendous 
yawn which sends his hat slipping far backward. 
" Yes, the same principle, precisely. Complete, per- 
fect happiness, save in rare cases," casting a lan- 
guishing glance into Rosamond's soft, dark eyes, 
" complete, perfect happiness on this globe is an un- 
known element." 

" I believe Invorarity's right," says Erlynde, who, 
with Emoclew, stands somewhat aloof from the 
various picturesque groups. "Perfect happiness on 
this earth is an unknown element." 

" Tut! " replies Emoclew, dryly. " Only in such 
cases when we cry for the moon." 

Emoclew speaks scoffingly, but his eyes have a 
troubled look as he notes the sad havoc Love has 
wrought in his friend's countenance. During the 
past ten days he has watched with pain and anger 
the alarming change creeping into and endangering 
Erlynde's life. At first he really gave it no serious 
attention, merely concluding that in a short interval 
it would pass, and if not wholly forgotten become at 
most nothing but a memory, a phantom. But now 
his deep affection and interest for Erlynde's welfare 
renders the elder man decidedly uneasy, and with a 
muttered curse he glances wrath fully toward the 
unconscious author of the trouble, who, despite the 
unnatural pallor of her cheeks and feverish brilliancy 
of her eyes, is looking unearthly beautiful as she 
smilingly converses low with Dacre who bends de- 



254 Black Butterflies 

votedly over her, his lips touching the handle of the 
tiny jeweled dagger thrust through the massive coils 
of her tawny hair. 

It is with untold anguish Emoclew has watched 
Erlynde making so palpable an effort to conceal his 
secret and heroically strive to appear his ordinary 
self, which to Emoclew's eyes is such a woeful farce, 
filling his soul with trepidation and forebodings of 
coming evil, as he groans : 

" He'll never get over it, never. Another fellow 
would, but he is different. Curse her for a senseless, 
heartless minx! No, Guy, poor beggar, will carry 
this grief to the end of his days. If he'd only leave 
the confounded country there might be some hope 
for him, but not here. 

" You look downright ill, Guy," anxiously 
scrutinizing Erlynde's wan, emaciated face and al- 
most transparent hands. " Are you so absorbed in 
your love-sick occupation ? " 

" Go on ; rally as much as you like," moodily. 

" Guy, dear friend, I meant no offense ; but this is 
folly, this cursed infatuation, and your life may be 
the forfeit." 

" Nay," quietly, " not cursed ; fatal, if you will, 
but not cursed, for its fatal influence is over me, its 
deadly poison in my heart, and yet I would not es- 
cape the fearful joy of it if I could. Oh, Emoclew," 
imploringly, " help me — I am going mad — mad ! I 
have been on the rack so long, my bewildered brain 




" Here, come in here ! " 



■Page 2J5> 



Black Butterflies. 



Black Butterflies 255 

is only fit for Bedlam — I dare not tell you what mad- 
ness possesses me since this wild delirium has en- 
tered my soul." 

" You can't sleep, eh ? " eyeing him critically. 

" No," briefly, " not one hour out of the twenty- 
four." 

" Poor chap ! " sympathetically, regarding him in 
deep concern. " I'll give you a drop of something 
that'll set you right in a trice. Come with me." 

And docile as a tired child, Erlynde follows at his 
friend's bidding. 

" Here," says Emoclew, holding aside the heavy 
mass of foliage from the almost imperceptible aper- 
ture of the vine-covered arbor. " Come in here." 

Within, a few nesting birds, affrighted at their 
entrance, flutter giddily about, then skim through 
the swaying tendrils of the narrow doorway. At one 
corner a white brier-rose has thrust itself through 
from the outside, filling the place with a delicate 
fragrance and waves them a cheery greeting. 

" Swallow a couple of mouthfuls." Emoclew 
holds a flask to Erlynde's lips — that selfsame flask 
which has done duty in Italy — " Down with it, man ; 
it won't hurt you, but do you a world of good. No 

— no — not too much. Now " brushing a few 

dead leaves from off a rustic bench — " sit down and 
rest; you need it." 

The queer-tasting, albeit delicious, liquid sends a 
most peculiar feeling scurrying over Erlynde's whole 



256 Black Butterflies 

body; a feeling rightfully, if vulgarly described as 
" groggy " rendering for a time all things and im- 
pressions hazy, coupled with an unexplainable for- 
eign sensation of contentment altogether pleasant. 
Emoclew's voice sounds leagues distant; but this 
divine feeling of lassitude only lasts the space of a 
few seconds, then his truant faculties return with 
tenfold power, but happily unaccompanied by that 
oppression which has borne him down for so many 
days — a mild exhilaration has usurped its place. 

" Ah, you look better," says Emoclew, gratified. 
" I can see the change already." 

" Yes," nodding, " that flask of yours must be 
filled with the virtues of Pandora's box, the waters 
of Lethe, or something equally as meritorious, for it 
has performed a miracle; I feel like a fighting cock," 
and Erlynde closes his eyes, to open them again with 
a start. 

" Eh, what were you saying ? I beg your pardon, 
Emoclew, but I believe I was asleep. What were 
you talking about ? " 

" My journey; I must start the day after tomor- 
row." 

" So soon? " drowsily, though making a desperate 
effort to listen. " Decidedly shabby of you to make 
your stay so short." 

" I've already overstayed the specified time," 
answers Emoclew, seating himself at the other end 



Black Butterflies 257 

of the bench. " Can't you pull yourself together? 
Take my tip, dear boy — cut it." 

" Easier said than done," laconically. " Yes, I 
know you think me a miserable fool, and perhaps 
you're right, but," in a rapt voice, " God ! To pos- 
sess her I'd burn in hades, for nothing but death or 
her possession can assuage this cursed pain in my 
heart." 

At these reckless words Emoclew starts violently, 
regarding the speaker curiously. 

" You are hard hit, my friend. I'm shot if I can 
understand why you're so completely daft over the 
woman." Then, after a slight pause, speaks low, 
quietly, " Say, Guy, if it could be accomplished, this 
— " hesitatingly — "this thing you speak of; if, if, 
for instance, some unforeseen circumstances could 
conspire to grant your wish, preposterous as it is, 
and send her temporarily to your arms, would you 
then be willing to renounce her afterward ? " 

" Ha, ha ! " laughing outright. " Ha, ha ! A 
good joke, upon my word! " 

" Hush," commands the other, springing to his 
feet, a dark frown of displeasure knitting his brows. 
" Do you want the whole tribe of them flocking in 
here?" 

Then, after glancing apprehensively about, Emo- 
clew steps stealthily to the door ; but this precaution 
is entirely unnecessary, for Erlynde's eyes following 
him can see that the picnic is over and the crowd dis- 



258 Black Butterflies 

persed, the only evidence of their recent presence be- 
ing the fire, which, after so stubbornly resisting Miss 
Padelford's and Teddy's laborious efforts, is now, 
owing to the slight breeze which has arisen, burning 
brightly with a sturdy, yellow flame; and save for 
the rustle of leaves, shrill chirrup of birds, and Nero 
(who duly shows his appreciation of the situation 
by thumping his tail violently on the floor, thereby 
causing a small whirlwind of dust to arise), or, in 
the distance, Dacre's voice faintly heard blithely 
singing 

"And, daylight beaming, prove thy dreams are vain," 

all is silence. 

Erlynde drums on the arm of the settee, im- 
patiently awaiting Emoclew's pleasure; his tired 
brain and exhausted limbs are vastly refreshed. It 
is delightfully cool in this corner of the summer- 
house; through several gaps a few rifts of sunlight 
stream, causing Nero to blink lazily while the brier- 
rose pats his master lovingly across the mouth with 
its scented petals, as he yawns : 

" Well, my dear Emoclew, what mighty secret 
have you got up your sleeve ? Pray unbosom your- 
self." 

Emoclew, standing in a meditative attitude, lays 
a warning hand upon the other's arm, and bending, 
whispers some words into his ear. 



Black Butterflies 259 



n 



You? 1 — You — What do you mean?" stammers 
Erlynde. 

Once more Emoclew puts his lips closely to his 
ear. 

"Eh! What twaddle!" 

" Twaddle ? " Emoclew-Houssein Rao smiles 
grimly, drawing himself up to his extreme height, 
standing in his dignity and stern, dark' beauty a tall 
King Saul. " Well, call it such, if you choose ; it 
matters not." 

" But, in the infernal fiend's name — what scheme 
have you concocted ? " 

Emoclew regards him gloomily, shrugging his 
shoulders without reply. 

" That insane nonsense is all bosh," persists Er- 
lynde, twisting and breaking the brier-rose from its 
thorny stem. 

" Again I say, have it thus, if you will ; yet I 
swear, with your permission, to free your soul from 
the thrall which this Circe, this enchantress, has 
woven by her spells so close about you, and for 
whom, forsooth! you tragically rave of selling your 
soul. Bah ! " contemptuously snapping his slim, 
brown fingers, " such poppycock will do for the 
mimic stage only." 

" It's no idle boast," avers Erlynde. " I love her, 
do you hear? Do you understand? God! How I 
love her ! " 

" And you want her ? " 



260 Black Butterflies 

Erlynde nods mechanically. 

" You shall have her. Yes, wholly, entirely," 
speaking with the deep, tense calm of the fatalist; 
" but, I repeat, only temporarily. Is that satis- 
factory? " 

" Yes," dreamily mutters Erlynde, into whose in- 
ner consciousness has crept a vague, positive concep- 
tion of the other's wondrous powers, and with it, 
too, that same fearsome speechlessness which so 
mysteriously, forcibly assailed him that night, scarce 
one month previous, in Alexandria, while those same 
events cross, recross his mental vision with faithful 
accuracy. 



XX 

" Forth from the abyss of time which is to be, 
The chaos of events, where lie half-wrought 
Shapes that must undergo mortality." 

" Pff! What infernal rubbish are you talking? " 
" Then," arising to his feet in quick suppressed 
anger, " I will talk rubbish no longer. Is it well for 
you — " sternly, " Is it well for you to scoff at 
Nature's science — Nature, whose evanescent laws I 
— " proudly tapping his breast with a slim, brown 
forefinger, " have fully mastered, whose dark arte- 
ries I have drained to the last drop — aye, human and 
animal combined ? " 

The other's skepticism is fast vanishing; these 
strong, convincing words fraught with warm en- 
thusiasm compel his attention. That there is a 
latent, hidden agency of supernatural character 
about the speaker, who learned beyond his fellows, 
from whom his ideas, theories drift wide apart, he 
has never doubted, the evidence in his mind being 
too complete for question; and that in his insatiable 
thirst, pursuit of knowledge, he has succeeded — 
aided by Alchemy — now able (as he avers) to a cer- 
tain extent to control nature, is no idle boast. Yet 
this bold announcement which he has just so calmly 

261 



262 Black Butterflies 

made, nay, laid claim to, is by far too fearfully start- 
ling for serious reasoning, consideration or sane con- 
templation. 

" Hold on, old man," reaching out a detaining 
hand, " if there is any virtue in your argument — 
absurd as it sounds — I'm willing to listen; but I still 
adhere to the belief that your puny power will not 
dare permit you to cope, interfere with the Infinite." 

" I do not aspire nor claim to meddle with the In- 
finite," says Emoclew-Houssein Rao, who, instantly 
mollified, resumes his seat. " That is far beyond my 
ken. When Death seizes the body its spirit becomes 
unattainable, immediately soaring into that spacious 
region which secret location I know naught of. 
With Death my power ceases. I merely profess to 
control that which pertains to Life, and, when two 
spirits forsake their sleeping bodies, the limited 
power to disconnect that electrical current linking 
soul and body together, and, by turning aside the 
magnet which attracts each to itself, can transfer, 
exchange them; though only temporarily, however, 
for this reason : The twain will be aware of the 
change, and he who has been defrauded out of his 
handsomer body will naturally resent the difference 
and strive to reclaim his own. Hence, should the 
two subjects sleep at the same hour, that invisible 
cord, charged with attractive matter, will surely 
again unite with its natural self, for as the steel 
draws the magnet so does the earthly body allure its 



Black Butterflies 263 

astral mate, which neither atmospheric conditions, 
elementary force, nor celestial bodies, will allow to 
remain asunder." 

" Well," questions Erlynde, doubtfully, " if you 
really possess this miraculous gift, why not experi- 
ment on yourself and slip into some gay young dog's 
carcass ? " 

" With myself it is not possible, and even if it 
were I would reject the opportunity. This strong, 
flawless bodv suits, contents me. No woman — " 
with his swift, cynical smile, " will ever tempt me to 
discard it. Tis the body Nestora knew and loved," 
raising his eyes heavenward. " It will remain so till 
we meet again." 

" But," hazards Erlynde, " upon what founda- 
tion do you base your assertions? " 

" Practically I have proven what I say." 

" Impossible." 

" Primarily I started on my shadowy quest with 
this theory paramount to guide me : If agricultural 
scientists have discovered a method by grafting, and 
transmission of pollen changes the nature of fruit or 
flower; and surgeons, transfusing the blood of one 
person into another's veins transforming his disposi- 
tion, why, then, if performed locally, could not the 
same principle — a reversed form — apply, be accom- 
plished in a spiritual sense to life. It is a poor rule 
which refuses to work both ways ; so with this scrap 
of logic to work on, and sanguine of recompense, I 



264 Black Butterflies 

was urged to the task with the determination mani- 
fest neither to fail nor lose courage. But ah! my 
friend, with what tireless, unremitting study have I 
toiled to solve and at last contrived to gain my cher- 
ished object, one of Life's greatest secrets. 

" It was at first, I confess, baffling, perplexing ; 
but happily patience and an exhaustless faith 
were my firm, my chief allies, and a clew once 
gained, the rest was fairly amenable to materializa- 
tion. Thus I prosecuted my search by which this 
marvelous power enabled me to peer, probe through 
the narrow tube of nature straight, direct to its in- 
nermost recesses of heart and pulse; which subse- 
quent developments to this wellnigh intactable prob- 
lem, and establishment of facts, I am ready to dem- 
onstrate, substantiate my statement — not by words 
alone, but by proof positive, which can leave no 
doubt of its verity. The motive has been neither 
mercenary nor selfish; my one desire through such 
endless researches, crowned finally by achievement, 
was impelled by the thought and hope that it would 
be beneficent to Science. After all, it is simply a 
profound, thorough understanding of the underlying 
channels, principles and maintenance of life ; no con- 
jurer magic assisted me; there is no mystery about 
it, the only wonder being that in this enlightened, 
progressive era, this age of improvements, inven- 
tions and discoveries, it should have remained hidden 
so long, proving beyond doubt that in a spiritual 



Black Butterflies 265 



sense Science is yet in its infancy. To you alone I 
have confided; you alone I now invite to view the 
test. And I will prove the veracity of my words, 
illustrate that which no mortal other than myself has 
ever witnessed. Are you willing? " 

" Willing? " Erlynde starts, repeating the abrupt 
question, a tremor, though not of personal fear, as- 
sailing him. " Willing? Yes." 

" Then," briefly, " follow me." 

So saying, Emoclew advances with long, gliding 
step, to the door leading into the adjoining room ; a 
noiseless twist of the knob, and it swings open. 
Silently he points within. Nero is placidly dozing 
upon the immense bearskin spread before the hearth, 
whilst in close proximity is Beppo, Trixie's pet Per- 
sian kitten. Emoclew jerks his thumb over his 
shoulder significantly toward the windows, and di- 
vining his wish Erlynde drags together the heavy 
outside shutters and lowering the blinds excludes the 
hot afternoon sun and leaves the room in almost total 
darkness. 

Then, as a preliminary to what follows, Emoclew, 
after removing his high, stiff collar, vest and coat, 
kicking off his shoes, fills a basin with water, seats 
himself upon a mat of Kooshu-grass, washes his 
teeth, face, hands and feet, utters a few words of 
Hindustani as of invocation, and pours some sort of 
mixture into his mouth, after which he slowly arises 
to his feet, touching each animal lightly with the toe 



266 Black Butterflies 

of his bared foot. They stir drowzily. He now 
makes a dozen rapid passes across their heads, inco- 
herent sounds issuing from his loosely-parted lips. 
Meanwhile the cat and dog, after several convulsive, 
grotesque antics, gradually stiffen out until rigid, 
apparently lifeless, all respiration seemingly stopped. 

From his bosom Emoclew now draws a small 
crystal vial partly filled with an inky substance 
which, upon removing the cork, exhales a pungent 
odor, flooding the apartment with such unearthly 
sweet perfume that Erlynde reels. 

Emoclew, kneeling, pours a trifle of the contents 
(which roll in tiny, quick, silvery balls) upon the 
brain base of the beasts, then, quickly arises, makes 
a few swift, twisted passes with his long arms high 
above them, then, stands motionless, his hands 
folded across his breast and eyes fixed steadily upon 
the unconscious brutes, muttering incantations. A 
fleck of light shot with myriads of brilliant irradiant 
colors floats, oscillating, slowly about his head. And 
this same opalescent, milky vapor spreads, envelop- 
ing him in its maze as he chants softly, musically, 
calling on Brahma, Vishnu, Sooryu, the Gayutru, the 
Spiritual Guide, Nine Planets, the Ten Guardian 
Deities of the Earth, the Five Airs of his body, and 
lastly, his favorite goddess, Doorga. Then after 
bowing thrice supplicatingly toward the East, stands 
listening in an attitude of rapt mental absorption 
until suddenly dropping upon hands and knees, he 



Black Butterflies 267 

alternately blows great draughts of breath into each 
animal's face, repeating the name of Doorga at in- 
tervals. Lifting the eyelids of either, he gazes long, 
penetratingly into the film-glazed optics till finally a 
slight shiver of resuscitation shakes them and the 
creatures commence to pant, breathing softly. 

With long, caressing touch Emoclew strokes the 
shaggy-coated dog, calling him "Beppo — Beppo ! " 
The huge beast, responding with a feline mew, turns 
lazily on its side. He next pats the kitten's head 
roughly as it slowly arises to its feet with a sharp, 
quick bark. 

Nero, fully awakened by the cat's loud barking, 
springs nimbly on all fours, and purring loudly 
passes back and forth, pressing his sides closely 
against the alchemist's knees. 

" Behold," says Emoclew-Houssein Rao, turning 
to Erlynde, who, with wonder-dilated eyes has re- 
garded him throughout the performance — " Behold 
the test. Are you satisfied ? " 

" Am I awake ? " gasps the other. " Is this a 
dream, or — man! — man, what damnable sorcery do 
you possess ? " 

Disregarding Erlynde's horrified exclamation, 
Emoclew produces another bottle. This time the 
fluid is colorless, unmistakably chloroform, and 
spilling a trifle upon his handkerchief applies it to 
the animals' nostrils, who, sinking to the floor, again 
lie in deathlike inanimation. Once more Emoclew, 



268 Black Butterflies 

accompanied with a few fantastic gestures, utters the 
same queer gibberish. The fog-like blur, so weird, 
mystic, beautiful, disappears, and while Beppo and 
Nero sleep peacefully, presumably to awaken later 
their own individual selves, Erlynde questions is it an 
hallucination of his morbid senses, or has his brain 
counterfeited visions with reality ? Emoclew speaks. 
" Thus far have I penetrated, the task not ter- 
minating, simply impeded by the lack of material for 
further construction. Yes," sadly, " thus far only 
have I penetrated, for which I take no credit nor 
vain-glory, fully aware of the fact that another more 
worthy could have stumbled accidentally — as I have 
done — upon the enigmatical subject. But assuredly 
nature, in its series of continuous changes, will even- 
tually (despite the unretardable course of conflicting 
events) produce a master mind whose hand will take 
up, resume the task where I have laid it down, and 
bring it to its full, perfect development, with what 
result can only be a source of speculative conjecture. 
As I said before, science is yet in its infancy. Its 
possibilities are tremendous. Prehistorically our 
progenitors surely ruled the heavenly spheres — their 
peculiar nature, all logical reasoning, indicates it. 
Up to the present our researches, investigations, dis- 
coveries have been confined to the earth only, our in- 
terest, save in ludicrous schemes, never stretching be- 
yond it and grossly ignoring, neglecting the planet- 
ary realm which offers vast scope, unexplored fields 



Black Butterflies 269 

and meadows to work on. But the ground must first 
be tilled, plowed and sowed by that seed called — " 
dropping the word into his listener's ear, who starts 
aghast, then, with a smothered, wild ejaculation 
smartly smites his hands together. Then with face 
aglow, awed wonder, reverential admiration strug- 
gling for supremacy, seizes and wrings Emoclew's 
hands. 

" The symbol ! sure enough. Jove ! You are — by 
the gods ! you are a genius — wizard and genius rolled 
in one ; for you have revealed the hidden mystery of 
Life with a vengeance — a mystery so glaringly ap- 
parent that, as you said, the only wonder is how it, 
in open view, should have remained hidden so long. 
But who except yourself, Emoclew, could have ever 
guessed, imagined it?" 

" Yes," answers Emoclew, quietly, resuming his 
wearing apparel and fastidiously adjusting his white 
silk necktie, " yes, this world should be utilized as 
a workshop merely. Steam and electricity are well 
so far as they go, but they require a third, a more 
important companion, to acquire success. The only 
instance approaching my object is Marconi — the 
young Italian's modest efforts, recent attempts to 
step outside the earth's environments ; but he cannot 
proceed far without the aid of that third indis- 
pensable factor." 

5{C «JS *{* 5jC 5jC 5|C 5}C 5jC 

Because you are handicapped in a couple of in- 



270 Black Butterflies 

stances you have allowed, nay, encouraged your 
mind to become embittered. Take my advice, accept 
the gifts the gods provide." 

" True, but the grist of my life is not worth the 
soil it thrives in. Broken in health and spirits, why 
should I strive to conquer such obstacles? No, my 
conscience will never permit it." 

" Let the weeds of indifference overgrow and 
cover the path to your conscience." 

" See here, Emoclew ! I am a miserable ass — 
freely admitted — and loathe myself for much more 
than paltry words can express; yet to accept — even 
consider — your proposition, I would be a scoundrel 
of the deepest dye." 

" Uncomplimentary to me," answers the other 
meditatively, emitting the smoke in a thin, spiral 
thread from his lips. " Well, stay and read your 
Aristotle; but, my friend, you will find him a sorry 
comforter and in a week hence implore me to re- 
turn." 

" Never ! " The younger man grows very pale. 
" For that purpose, never." 

" You cannot thwart Destiny nor escape Fate." 

" No," answers Erlynde," " I will not, must not, 
dare not, think of it. 'Twould be shameful, abom- 
inable." 

" Humph ! I'll stake a couple of ponies on it that 
you'll change your mind, regret your decision, and 
urge my return." 



Black Butterflies 271 

"Never!" 

" Then, farewell ; but remember, ' beyond the Alps 
lies Italy/ " And after a moment of immobility and 
silence, Emoclew sorrowfully turns away, Erlynde 
duly laying his friend's oracular prediction to inborn 
fatalistic imagination. 

And in this condition of mind they part. 



XXI 

"I'll give no blemish to her honor, none." 

— Winter's Tale. 

" A woman's honor, forsooth ! Very few of them 
are proof against flattery." 

" You mistake there," sneers Julian Dacre, direct- 
ing a furtive glance toward the quiet figure at the 
window. " A surer way, my dear boy, is gold." 

" Well," answers Desmond, " either one, flattery 
or lucre, wins 'em." 

" You talk like a couple of libertines," quoth Pat- 
rick Invorarity, gravely rebuking this callous 
speech. " I have — thank heaven ! — a far better 
opinion of women than that." 

" So have I," says Grosvenor. " Dacre and Des- 
mond are a pair of hardened old roues, who should 
be cut and drummed out of every woman's society in 
Christendom." 

" There are women — and women, I admit," re- 
plies Julian Dacre, chalking his billiard cue, " but 
take them as a whole they are a sorry lot." 

" Gospel truth, there," interposes Trevor. " I'm 
not discrediting their virtue, but they have faults, are 
capricious, full of whims, petty jealousies — " evi- 

272 



Black Butterflies 273 

dently remembering the tilt he has had with Trixie 
Fairfax a few hours previous regarding his too 
ardent attentions to Mrs. Arrowes, in which he was 
considerably worsted — " and then there's their 
beastly uncertain tempers." 

" Well, you know the old rhyme — 

"A woman, a dog and a walnut tree, 

The more you beat them the better they be" — 

laughs Dacre, taking careful aim and scoring a loser 
off the red. 

" A brutal maxim," expostulates Invorarity, play- 
ing a rattling break of sixteen. 

" Regarding the dog and tree, perhaps," retorts 
Dacre, " but in the woman's case — " 

" Gad ! Yes," growls Roger Barnaby. " Deliver 
me from women. One moment they lead a fellow 
on with no end of significant allurements till they 
get him badly hipped; then coolly send him adrift, 
making him a laughing stock." 

" That's their nature," chides Mr. Invorarity, as 
the red kisses the white and knocks them both in 
baulk. " That's their nature ; they like to tantalize 
us ; can't help it — born in them." 

" I'll take jolly good care none of them shall snare 
me," boasts Chatwin. 

" Your time will come, as it does to us all sooner 
or later, see if it doesn't," declares Hume. 

" Serve us right, too, for being such asses," says 
Grosvenor, mixing himself a brandy and soda which 



274 Black Butterflies 

he polishes off neatly. " Especially him," indicating 
Dacre by a nod. " He always manages to attract 
them." 

" Yes, and by what charms I can't imagine," 
plaintively sighs Chatwin. 

" Dashed if I know," answers Hume. 

" Nor I," echoes another, all bent upon torment- 
ing Dacre, as on a former occasion. 

" It's that spice of nonchalant insolence about 
him," jeers Barnaby. 

" Oh, go to the devil," laughs Dacree, laying 
down his cue to take a long pull at the seltzer. 

" Better leave him alone," whispers Grosvenor 
audibly. " He's got a nasty temper." 

" I think the real secret is his profession," drawls 
Hume. " An artist — so deucedly romantic, you 
know." 

" Here ! Bolt that chaff ; I want to finish the 
game," cries Dacre, bringing his cue down sharply 
on the speaker's pate. " 'Pon my soul, you're like a 
lot of cackling hens." 

" Bah ! Woman may go hang, for me," yawns 
Desmond, who has drank a little more brandy than 
is good for him. 

" And for me, too," agrees Hume, totally disre- 
garding Dacre's protest. " Women are too damned 
egotistical." 

" Jove, yes ! " says Chatwin. " A year or so ago 
I was horribly smitten with a sweet, modest little 



Black Butterflies 275 

flower of a thing, and on the point of proposing, 
when, bless my soul! at the opera one night, if that 
girl didn't actually accompany Sanderson through 
the whole libretto of " Manon." It was beastly an- 
noying — spoiled my whole evening. I've often won- 
dered since," with a short, grim laugh, " if she 
guessed why my ardent courtship ended so ab- 
ruptly." 

" Rest assured," answers Desmond, " her vanity 
would never permit her to grasp the correct solution. 
I know of just such another case; the moment a 
piano or other musical instrument is touched, she 
forces that abominable voice of hers upon one." 

" Self-egotism dominates society belle down to 
country rustic," muses Desmond aloud. " Before 
you have been in their company fifteen minutes they 
will mysteriously hint at some latent gift, pet hobby, 
ambition or mission, and insist upon thrusting their 
mawkish confidences upon one. Lady Maude, for 
instance, will solemnly declare her forte is Litera- 
ture ; Arabella yearns toward Art ; Phyllis, throwing 
herself into impossible, tragic attitudes, suggests her 
aspirations to rival Bernhardt, whilst another will 
inanely prate of her musical endowments, each one 
confident, in her own silly heart, of the power to out- 
shine her famous predecessors. Bah ! Such a mix- 
ture of geniuses, and, oddly enough, not one ounce 
of genuine talent amongst the lot." 

" It isn't genius ; it's a fad," retorts Dacre. 



276 Black Butterflies 

"Queer," rejoins Hume, lighting a cigarette and 
reflectively casting the match grate ward, " passing 
queer that none of them are blessed with the sensible 
gift pertaining to domestic duties." 

" Oh, no ! " exclaims Desmond. " Their sphere 
lies far beyond such trifling, yet natural, instincts, 
and " " 

" Women — bless them ! ' : interjects Mr. Invor- 
arity, " are God's own angels, sent here to give us a 
foretaste of heaven, if " 

" Or hell," scoffs Dacre, making, by a vicious 
side-stroke, a cannon, a loser and a red double. 
" History's full of such angels, from Cleopatra 
down " 

" Nay," replies Invorarity, " I'm not speaking of 
Cleopatra nor other famous courtesans of the world 
— the numerous saintly women overshadow them. 
Nor need we seek so far back as beautiful Oueen 
Esther who heroically released her enslaved people, 
nor the gentle Rebecca, nor loving Ruth, to find 
them. Modern instances are too plentiful. Louisa 
of Prussia, that fair queen who freely, for her dis- 
tressed country's cause, cast aside all personal feel- 
ings to humbly supplicate, plead with the arrogant 
Napoleon ; or brave Lady Sayle, in the power of the 
treacherous Akbar Khan, cheering her fellow- 
hostages in Afghanistan, or our own dear Florence 
Nightingale, or America's noblest daughter, Mrs. 
Ballington Booth, or " as the clear, sweet voice 



Black Butterflies 277 

of Rosamond Arbuthnot echoes from the drawing- 
room, " others directly within our midst furnish a 
fair illustration." 

An affirmative murmur follows this significant 
speech, all knowing to whom it is Invorarity refers ; 
and some of them present recall an incident of the 
morning and see her again, with tears of sympathy 
in her soft brown eyes, carefully bandaging 
Feathers' injured hand. 

" Yes," continues Mr. Invorarity, running five 
long fingers through his mop of bright red hair, 
" yes, there are countless others — others foremost 
amongst which is one for whom our hearts through 
all remembrance yearn, one whose hand has the 
magic charm to sooth and cheer; so gentle, so ten- 
der is its touch that through all life's prodigal jour- 
ney we crave the chaste caress of its loving fingers. 
Ah, men, men, sons of those women, who, I repeat, 
are God's own angels, sent here to guide and give us 
a foretaste of heaven." 

The solitary man, his back to the speaker's, takes 
no part in and is heedless to the foregoing conversa- 
tion ; standing with eyes riveted upon the outside, he 
is intuitively seeking to solve the reason why a 
kinder fate has not been his, a question as vain to 
probe as the obscurity beyond. He can no longer 
patiently endure his present wretched existence, 
which seems heavier the past few days than ever be- 
fore. This heart anguish is constantly with him; 



278 Black Butterflies 

awakening in a rapturous start from sleep he im- 
agines her white arms about his neck, her fragrant 
kisses on his lips. So powerfully realistic are these 
mighty visions, he can plainly inhale that curious In- 
dian perfume which she invariably uses, its essence 
setting his pulses whirling. In his waking sense, 
too, he is tormented, his jealousy fanned by the sight 
of her and Dacre together, and yet, " Oh, fool ! " he 
mentally groans. When the opportunity presented 
he rejected it, and now — now it is too late. Yet 
stay! Is it too late? His brain throbs as if per- 
meated with the delightful fumes of hasheesh, for it 
answers no, and that proposition which he indig- 
nantly refused so short a while since, by degrees 
assumes form and plausibility. 

" O, fool ! To have hesitated, toyed like a witless 
child with his happiness so long. Emoclew was 
right to remonstrate against his idiotic obstinacy ; 
and now, to find the trysting place of the Fates and 
cajole, threaten, bribe them to his bidding is what he 
will do. He will send for Emoclew on the morrow." 
Thus his pent-up passion bursts the bulwarks of all 
reason. To feel her thrill within his tightening 
clasp, submissive, responsive to his love — to reach 
the haven of her lips — yea! his senses reel with ec- 
stasy. This decision reached, he is overwhelmed 
with a delicious dread akin to pain which always 
accompanies anticipated pleasures. 

These are Guy Erlynde's thoughts as he stands 



Black Butterflies 279 

with loosely-clasped hands behind him. The thread 
of his meditation forbids him joining in the jolly 
gibes and good-natured raillery around him, whilst 
velvet-footed Nox, ebon-hued daughter of Chaos, 
descending, softly spreads her calm presence and 
sable mantle over all outside creation. So he re- 
mains alone, gazing out upon the night. There is no 
moon, yet he can plainly distinguish the immense 
hedge of pink and white geraniums and a great tree 
of crimson roses clearly outlined against the black 
arena of night, and in the far distance the tall row 
of elms looming sullenly athwart the gloom. The 
pitchy background transforms the window, for the 
nonce, into a huge mirror, disclosing the warm in- 
terior of the brilliantly-illuminated room in which he 
stands, faithfully portraying the shades and wreath- 
ing witch-like shadows darting about the frescoed 
wall, glinting around the massive, gilt-framed pic- 
tures, and, caressing the shining billiard balls, 
scampering across the green-covered table around 
which the laughing group of coatless men are 
gathered. 

" It is Invorarity and Desmond's last night at 
Castlewalls, both departing early in the morning, the 
former returning Londonward and to resume the 
practice of law in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields, the latter his 
diplomatic duties abroad. 

Whistling beneath his breath, Erlynde, now his 
resolution made, is happy, and observes in amused 



280 Black Butterflies 

interest the majority of them making frequent de- 
mands upon the decanter, smiling slightly as he sees 
Vivian Hyde fill to the brim and toss off a glass of 
Chambertin, then with one bite scallop a biscuit into 
a half -moon. 

" May we come in? " asks Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, 
popping her head around the door ; and straightway 
suiting the action to the word, followed by Trixie 
and several others, enters. 

" Ugh ! " she protests, elevating her hands and 
nose. " Ugh ! the smell of brandy is positively sick- 
ening. Edward," authoritatively, " for goodness* 
sake, open one of the windows." 

In a serene and placid mood Erlynde regards with 
a possessive glance Lalage's queenly form sharply 
defined against the glass. No longer his gaze is 
mournful, covetous, but all-conquering, complacently 
sure of her soon possession he watches every detail. 
The soft, dull-gold draperies, the white fingers loose- 
ly clasping a huge fan of purple feathers, blossoms 
of the same hue nestling in her irradiant hair, as 
like a gorgeous tropical flower she seems to droop 
beneath the weight of her own drowsy loveliness. 

" Oh, my love beautiful," he mutters, a frenzy of 
admiration and delight sweeping over him and his 
heart thickening at the joys so soon to follow. " My 
love — mine — mine ! " 

" Julian," remarks Trixie, moving to her brother's 



Black Butterflies 281 

side, " we want a game between you and Mrs. De- 



maris." 



" No, no ! " cries Lalage quickly. 

" Yes, yes ! " mimics Trixie playfully. Then as 
Mrs. Demaris still demurs, " Do, dear," coaxingly. 
" I insist ; we want to make a little wager on the 
result." 

" Then," answers the other, making a wry face 
and shrugging her superb shoulders, " I'll have to 
submit." 

" Musha, do," says Mr. Invorarity, gleefully, 
handing her a billiard cue, and I'll lay a pony on you, 
Mrs. Demaris, darlint." 

" That settles it," laughs Lalage. " Mr. Invorar- 
ity, will you kindly take charge of my fan, and watch 
Mr. Barnaby carefully that he plays no tricks with 
the score? " 

" Devil a trick. I'll see to it that you have fair 
play. Here, Kath, me jewel," cries Invorarity, 
" hold the score card." 

They now proceed to string for leads, which La- 
lage wins, and after giving a miss, Dacre ditto, she 
runs on with the utmost sangfroid in breaks of 74, 
56 and 30, including a dip. Mrs. Demaris is an ex- 
pert billiardist, playing freely from the shoulder with 
a strong, graceful sweep of the arm, brilliantly il- 
lustrating the scientific beauty of the game. 

Starting now at 302, she makes 17, and attaining 
the spot-stroke position maintains it, scoring 50 red 



282 Black Butterflies 

hazards consecutively, frequently and adroitly leav- 
ing the balls so situated that her opponent cannot 
score, until, under the fusillade of taunts from the 
assembled crowd, he partly redeems himself by a 
splendid cannon off the top cushion. His luck is 
only temporary, however, for on, on, Lalage goes, 
making by her magnificent playing the 50th spot- 
stroke when Kath calls the score. 

Erlynde continues to survey the woman's lithe, 
graceful body, swaying, bending with the require- 
ments and action of the game, manipulating her cue 
so skillfully, and dreamily glad of his late resolution 
bitterly condemns his former senseless scruples 
which have made him a pariah from happiness so 
long. Then his eyes rove, resting with the calm, 
critical glance of a purchaser, upon the handsome 
face and herculean form of his half-brother, who, 
endeavoring to make a difficult hazard close against 
a side cushion, is leaning far across the table. 

Then, as Erlynde looks, he involuntarily recoils, 
a sudden horrified exclamation escaping his lips, for 
there, directly above Dacre's heart the dark red 
blood is slowly oozing, spreading in a circling blotch, 
upon which ghastly sight Erlynde gazes as one fasci- 
nated, a million beads of perspiration bursting forth 
upon his clammy forehead. The next moment, the 
illusion dispelling, he could laugh aloud. It is 
naught. The strange hallucination is caused by one 
of the roses outside vividly shadowing the splendor 



Black Butterflies 283 

of its crimson petals against the white bosom of the 
player's shirt. But the shock is keen, and only 
when his hand comes in contact with Nero's head, 
does Erlynde's composure return. Nevertheless, his 
long- tortured nerves must surely be on the verge of 
collapse, for he still shudders, trembling violently, 
and turns his head fearfully to better reassure him- 
self. 

" Come here, Guy, mio," calls Kath Brabazon. 

" Zounds ! What a face," exclaims Dacre, who 
has just finished the game a sorry loser. 

" Yes," cries Miss Brabazon in mock alarm, " I'm 
shaking in mv shoes." 

" Have you been fraternizing with ghosts, Mr. 
Erlynde?" asks Lalage Demaris, flushed and radiant 
after the game. " Your face is like a sheet." 

" Mr. Erlynde is fey. I'm sure it would take 
something more serious than a poor, harmless ghost 
to make him look like that," says Mrs. Stryker with 
a grin. " A heart affair, more likely." 

" Faith," laughs Invorarity, " he is a regular 
Knight of the Doleful Countenance order, sure 
enough." 

" Pray cheer up, Guy," entreats Desmond, " or 
you'll make us all weep." 

" Humph ! " sneers Roger Barnaby," " that would 
not be a very difficult matter, considering the fact 
that the sixth glass always makes you blubber." 

" A libel," replies Mr. Desmond, serenely light- 



284 Black Butterflies 

ing a cigarette. " A cruel, malicious libel. You 
have the choice of weapons." 

These sallies pass unheeded by Erlynde, who has 
returned to the window, standing motionless with a 
look of gladness upon his face. Strange things have 
taken place within his breast tonight, resulting in 
a restful lull after the furious storm of fierce mind- 
contentions which have so cruelly racked his soul 
for so many days. There is now no contrition in 
his heart — only deep, unutterable rest; from the 
fearful suffering has come peace, for now that in- 
congruous sense of desolation has disappeared, and 
he, so wrapped in the mantle of idolatrous passion, 
lounges upon the threshold of Bliss, lingering there 
to contemplate the interior of Love's domain, loath 
to cross and claim those brief delights, with the 
end in sight so soon, alas ! to follow. 



XXII 

" Is this my skill ? my craft ? to set at last 
Hope, power, and life upon a single cast? 
Oh, Fate ! — accuse thy folly, not thy fate ! 
She may redeem thee still, nor yet too late." 

The Fates, inexorable rulers of our destiny, keep- 
ing us in touch condition alternating between rain 
and sunshine, tears and laughter, offering us the 
choicest sweets of life one moment, bowing servile 
to our bidding; thus, having them under subjection, 
we triumphantly brandish our cudgel. But no 
sooner are we comfortably ensconced within For- 
tune's lap, when lo! the Fates (who are tricky 
fellows and only gingerbread friends at best) slyly 
creep from out the wellnigh forgotten depths of yes- 
terday, and with cruel, ruthless fingers snuff, ex- 
tinguish the flame burning so brightly in Ambition's 
candle, throwing to the winds, setting at defiance 
our authorities and securely riveting the clanking 
chains of bondage once more upon our indignant 
limbs, and our new line of Hopes, which we had 
built with such ecstasy, built alas ! with frail, pretty 
moonbeams of the Present, are turned to tombs of 
Mockery. 

Perchance their act is not prompted by personal 

285 



286 Black Butterflies 

aversion, but merely a playful desire on their part 
to make prankish psychological experiments to ascer- 
tain how many trials we can bear. 

A word of advice to those who have supped with 
Grief and been buffeted by those impish instruments 
of some mighty, unseen, controlling power — that 
continual, moving, efficacious strength at whose 
command they ever are. 

Don't sit dejected by Failure's dusty roadside, be- 
wailing your lot, rending your garments and heap- 
ing ashes of repentance, useless remorse, upon your 
aching head for the passerby to jeer, revile your 
suffering. So ho! A toast! Come! Fill a bumper 
and merrily drink to those Fates who plague us, who 
wantonly scatter our dearest wishes, and mercilessly 
flicker out the light of our cherished aspirations. 
Escape from their tyranny; pay them back in their 
own coin, and they, shrinking to half their inflated 
size, won't appear nearly so formidable. 

Put on a smiling front; entertain cheerful reflec- 
tions; cultivate self-confidence and an earnest con- 
sciousness to accomplish something true and worthy. 
The task may be long, arduous. What of that? 
You can do it. Don't get discouraged; resist to the 
utmost every worrying thought. Don't allow your 
mind to dwell on, harbor, morbid subjects; melan- 
cholic brooding, if not speedily eradicated, will lead 
to a premature grave, or what is worse by far, mad- 
ness. 



Black Butterflies 287 

Cheer up ! The existing condition of mind pro- 
duces the precise condition of body. Discard super- 
fluous misery, and above all avoid that fatal germ, 
Discontent. Inoculate yourself with the priceless 
lymph of Contentment; it is the only positive cure 
against such ills. Remember that the sun shines 
as warmly bright on the roof of the poor man's 
humble cot as upon the stately palace walls. 

View the world as your kingdom — not a tread- 
mill, and that the dear Creator in His divine wisdom 
has slighted none of His creatures and bestowed a 
gift upon us all which we should struggle to dis- 
cover. It may be but a modest little gift — we can't 
all be geniuses, else the world would be too evenly 
balanced — search for that gift; its cultivation will 
fill a void. 

" Know thyself." What greater words than 
these? Nature is a fearful, wondrous study to 
us mortals, who are, in so many instances, entire 
strangers to our inner selves, comprehending not to 
what heights we can aspire, ascend, or to what 
depths of moral degradation sink. Ah, how beauti- 
ful a thing it is to understand our own character. 
And, truly, manly courage is the noblest of God's 
many noble gifts. In moments of extreme danger 
courage instinctively asserts or entirely forsakes us, 
deciding without doubt our inherent valor or cow- 
ardice. 

Unquestionably, a dauntless heart, undismayed 



288 Black Butterflies 

at mortal sufferings, may face death boldly, when, 
perchance, the sight of a loved one's pain or peril 
will cause him to flinch, rendering this erstwhile 
hero the most arrant, pitiable craven. While, on the 
other hand, another, branded with the vile stigma 
" coward," creeps timidly along through life until, 
peradventure, queer to state, when threatened by 
immediate, unavertible disaster, all hitherto timidity 
vanishes, disclosing his true strength of purpose, 
which swiftly maintains supremacy, winning our 
commendation, surprise and admiration and nat- 
urally shaming us for our late injustice. 

Be brave, then. Courageously gird up your loins 
and go prepared for the fray and victory. The 
scorching south-winds can't blow forever; the whirl- 
wind will eventually spend itself, veer, succumb to 
gentle, refreshing zephyrs. 

Recollect this, and that there are cool, blue seas 
rolling in the hidden distance whose currents and 
tides are conspiring to bring, perchance, happy, un- 
looked-for changes to you, and amid, beneath those 
deep, majestic caverns the shells are dreamily sing- 
ing songs for your welfare and white-capped waves 
ripple, dance gaily upon the yellow sands of Pros- 
perity's beach, forming a marked, delightful con- 
trast to the ugly, green, turbulent waters dashing 
their spray angrily over Adversity's barren rocks. 

Thus the sun once more peeps cheerily out from 
between the sullen clouds of Despair and the sky of 



Black Butterflies 289 

your Destiny is again clear, serene. Now, when 
you have attained your desires, mastered those tre- 
mendous obstacles, don't fall a momentary prey to 
Delusion and thus become a vagrant from peace of 
mind. We must not mount the dazzling steps of 
Fancy too high, those glittering stairs of enchant- 
ment which lead us up — up — where? else, becom- 
ing dizzy, we first lose our head, then our footing, 
consequently tumble, and the higher our flight the 
more painful be our fall. Therefore use Hope as an 
anchor ; not a Kite. 

Let today and the Past suffice ; encourage not those 
innumerable, illogical fancies which ever and anon 
intrude, puzzle your brain; those vague, shadowy 
reflections, spectres of some by-gone, worn-out age. 
Waste not your time, energy upon them; let them 
with their pathos go, and your conscience will never 
accuse you of infidelity. 

But, ah, those others ! Those sweet, calm images, 
so different, which ever hover in the soft, cool twi- 
light gently about us — let not them depart. Those 
sacred phantoms of the past are our safeguard, our 
mainstay; they are our own. Circumstances can 
cheat us of today, tomorrow ; but the chaotic, vision- 
ary future cannot compensate us for the sweet, 
sacred Past which has slipped, alas! from our then 
too careless hold; yet of the Past — the dear, dear 
Past, with its trials, its bitter sorrows, joys and 



290 Black Butterflies 

crucificial sufferings around which a halo of bril- 
liancy clings — naught can rob us. 

A hymn of praise and thankfulness to Him who 
knoweth and doeth all things well, who sends us 
blessings in disguise — trials given us to work some 
good and wonderful purpose which we, in our stub- 
born, pitiable ignorance, unable to discern, foolishly 
rebel against. 

A hymn of praise and thankfulness to Him, then, 
who has mercifully given us the blessed consolation 
of the Past, left its portals open wide, through which 
w T e can look, enter, wander at will through its ripen- 
ing fields of waving yellow corn flecked thickly with 
blue, star-like blossoms, and its verdant meadows 
filled with quantities of various bright-hued flowers 
coyly offering us their fragrance as they bend, toss- 
ing their brilliant heads with every straying zephyr. 

To the right a river gleams; to the left, a sug- 
gestion of a valley with sloping hills arrayed on 
either side, peaceful, fair, calm. Wherever the eye 
rests is greenery, broad, vast space, stretching to the 
rim of the horizon glowing splendidly red in the 
distance. 

At our feet, half hidden by reeds, a tiny brooklet 
sings and ripples, speeding swiftly on its way. From 
amid the tall grasses near by a lark springs, its joy- 
ous song filling the air with a flood of richest melody 
above which sounds the sonorous clang of Sabbath 
bells; a peal of gladsome laughter; a young lad's 



Black Butterflies 291 

whistle, a faithful clog's well-known bark or a voice 
■ — a voice falling on our ears whose entrancing 
cadences thrill us strangely, so sweet it is — sweeter 
than distant notes of a Stradivarius when a master 
hand lightly draws the bow across its quivering 
strings. 

Aye! We can see and hear all this, which is 
visible to us alone. The fields, meadows, flowers — 
all these; and Love, that innocent, enduring, tender 
young Love, whose place within the Sanctuary of 
our heart none other can ever reach. 

Thus fortified with reminiscences of the Past, let 
us accept Nature's coming favors thankfully, not 
merely as our due. The Fates are hard task-mas- 
ters, 'tis true. It would require the wisdom of the 
Seven Sages to contend against them ; but, courage ! 
and you will find life bearable, nay, enjoyable, and 
can afford to pity the blase cynic of the world who 
has become ennuied from a surfeit of its unwhole- 
some sweets. 



XXIII 

" Meanwhile — long anxious — weary — still — the same 
Roll'd day and night — his soul could terror tame — 
This fearful interval of doubt and dread, 
When every hour might doom him worse than dead." 

" Eh ? " He draws a sharp, deep breath between 
his teeth. So it has come at last. A thousand times 
during the day he has pictured, momentarily ex- 
pected it, imagined it in many different ways, im- 
agined it by a peremptory tap on the shoulder, a 
word hissed in his ear, an angry hand on his arm, or 
a timid touch on the sleeve, bracing himself accord- 
ingly; and now — now the eventful hour is come, 
when he must answer that question in those eyes 
which have followed him continually since morning. 
He cannot speak nor move; stupidly transfixed, 
speechless as the actor who for the first time has 
been assigned a speaking part of one single line, 
which, speedily memorized, he rehearses, declaims 
with tragic stride and valiant gesture to the mirror, 
" letter perfect " till he proudly, thrillingly impatient 
awaits his cue, when, alas ! the prompter's call 
plunges him into the throes of stage-fright, a horror 
overcomes him and those half-dozen words, written 
indelibly on his brain, so glibly prepared on his 

292 



Black Butterflies 293 

tongue a moment previous, where are they? taken 
flight ; left him an automaton foolishly staring across 
the yellow footlights at the misty sea of uplifted 
faces turned expectantly toward him, as he — in con- 
fusion wildly praying that the trap door beneath his 
feet would open and precipitate him to the regions 
below — stutters, mouths idiotically. 

So it is with this tall man. The long-dreaded 
meeting, so carefully prepared for, is here. His 
accuser confronts him, and he, at the crucial moment, 
is in wordless confusion. A stinging flash of heat, 
succeeded by a shower of frozen rain, sweeps over 
him, benumbing, deadening his every living faculty, 
rendering his brain powerless to form ideas, his 
tongue refusing to frame words. 

The silence of the night is about them; a leaden, 
oppressive stillness only relieved by the occasional 
click of billiard balls or the twang of Paolo's guitar 
somewhere in the distance. Time is passing, and 
those interrogative eyes are still flaming into his, 
expecting, demanding an answer. 

" Eh? " he repeats, shifting uneasily and stepping 
from the slab of light streaming from the window. 
" What ? " stammering awkwardly — " what do you 
infer?" 

As he utters these words his cheeks burn hotly 
with shame and he averts his head, a keen sense of 
anguish and his own dishonor bitter upon him. 

" You know to what I allude," grimly, " you 



294 Black Butterflies 

and — " turning to Emoclew-Houssein Rao, stand- 
ing with half-shut eyes and smiling lips directly in 
the lightened space, " this cursed grinning fakir 
here, who, with his devilish arts has transformed 
me into this — this monstrosity and " 

" The master of Castle walls," quickly interjects 
Emoclew. 

" Yes," cries the tall figure on the rim of light. 
" Yes, it is yours — yours ; and the money — all — just 
think of it," eagerly, " every farthing. God knows 
it has been nothing but a curse and burden to " 

He stops suddenly. An icy finger seems laid 
across his lips and he shivers, remembering how near 
he came to betraying himself. 

" You tell a likely story, truly," sneers Emoclew, 
turning to the other. " Just take it in there," point- 
ing toward the billiard-room, " and see if you can 
find any one of them fool enough to believe you." 

At these words the hunchback, with a gesture of 
despair, groans, " Are you in league with Satan? or, 
by God, man ! what diabolical secret of some miracle- 
working witches' philtre do you possess ? " 

" You rave," answers Emoclew, shrugging his 
shoulders contemptuously. " You rave." 

" You lie ! " shouts the other. " If " 

" Hush ! pray be reasonable," implores the tall 
man, glancing fearfully toward the window. " Pray 
be reasonable. Remember, my dear Guy " 

His further speech is stopped, for at the name the 



Black Butterflies 295 

other, uttering a fierce exclamation, springs upon 
him, assailing him with oaths and blows. A ter- 
rible struggle follows; the hunchback is suddenly 
endowed with the furious strength of a thousand 
fiends, as swaying, wheeling, they cross, recross the 
silvery patch, then pass into the blackness on either 
side beyond. Back and forth they stumble. Against 
the gray, massive stone walls their gigantic, dis- 
torted shadows fall like a pair of savage beasts at 
mortal combat. Again they whirl across the illum- 
ined space, again the darkness envelops them and 
nothing is distinguishable except the white, set faces 
of the combatants, one livid with rage, the other with 
fear. 

Down, down the hedge of pink and white gera- 
niums are trodden ; down goes the bush of crimson 
roses trampled beneath their heavy feet. It is an 
unequal battle, for, as the tempest bends, twists the 
frail sapling, so the tall man sways as a reed in those 
strong, fierce hands of his assailant to whom anger 
and despair have given superhuman power. The 
tall man's strength is ebbing fast; an odd, lethargic 
spell is on him, leaden weights seem to hang on every 
limb. Mechanically he moves his head from side to 
side, endeavoring to avoid those crooked, talon-like 
fingers seeking so determinedly to clutch his throat, 
ah! — at last pressing tight — tighter — they encircle 
his neck, pressing with evil, sinister purpose, until 
his head is bursting. The commingled sounds of 



296 Black Butterflies 

many waters and forest winds are roaring in his 
ears. A blur of blood swims, dances fitfully before 
his bulging eyes. From between his aching lips his 
tongue rolls, black; horrible, clammy drops ooze 
from his brow and roll down his swollen cheeks. 
He strives to move, to speak, but his efforts are as 
a child's in the grasp of him whose terrible eyes, 
filled with hellish fire, are glaring into his own, and 
in which there is no mercy. Senses and life are de- 
parting when strong hands pull that vise-like clasp 
away and 

" A pretty close shave," says Paolo, whose deft 
fingers are rapidly loosening the gasping man's 
neck-gear. " Just happened along in the nick of 
time ; another minute and you'd have been a goner. 
Here, lean your full weight on me, Mr. Dacre, and 
you'll be all right in a jiffy." 

" Fool ! " says Emoclew sternly to the struggling 
demon in his grasp. " Fool, do you want the gal- 
lows ? Would you murder him ? " 

" Aye ! " madly striving as a hound vainly tugs 
at his iron chain for freedom, " Aye, and you," 
frantically, " you cursed Hindu devil ! " 

" Pooh ! You damned maniac, behave yourself, 
or " 

Some one throws open a window of the billiard 
room, and several figures lean out, amongst them a 
beautiful, white-faced woman with starry eyes. 

" What ? " says Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, standing 



Black Butterflies 297 

electrified at the unexpected sight of the three men 
(for Paolo, standing behind, still supporting the 
tall man, is entirely hidden from view), " What — " 
in comical surprise, " what's up ? What are you 
three doing; wasting your sweetness on the desert 
air, eh?" 

" A pretty fix you've got us in," grumbles Emo- 
clew, releasing his captive, who now stands quietly 
enough, with scowling brows, by his side. " If this 
cock and bull story leaks out, they'll swear you are 
stark staring mad." 

" You arch-fiend," is the sullen retort, " it needs 
the devil himself to cope with you." 

" What's up? " still persists the inquisitive dame. 
" Why are you prowling around with your hats off 
like a lot of — of — •" catching sight of Paolo's guitar 
which has fallen at the tall man's feet, — "of trouba- 
dours, as I live ; ah ! " with happy inspiration, " you 
were going to serenade us. Now," shaking a fore- 
finger playfully, " don't dare deny it ; the evidence 
is quite sufficient." 

" Oh, good gracious ! How very romantic," ex- 
claims Trixie Fairfax, wedging her yellow head be- 
tween the others. " I'm sorry your fell designs were 
discovered ; it will spoil half the charm." 

" Discovered and frustrated," replies Emoclew. 

" No, no ! " Miss Brabazon leans far over the case- 
ment, "not that; surely not frustrated," in mock 



298 Black Butterflies 

sentiment. " It would be cruel, shameful to disap- 
point us." 

This appeal, however, meets with no response. 
The trio stand like statues in the narrow rift of 
light, while Nero, walking from one to the other, 
seems sorely puzzled and distressed. 

" Ho, Sir Knight, pick up your lute," commands 
Kath, " and sing to your ladye-love ere you depart 
for Palestine's land. It was Palestine, or some such 
place, wasn't it, where all those handsome belted 
knights and Crusader fellows in shining armor went, 
mounted on fiery, gaily-caparisoned steeds, eh ? " 

" A song," cries Trixie. " A song! " 

" Bid them sing, Mrs. Demaris," says Kath coax- 
ingly. " A heart of stone couldn't refuse you. Se- 
lect your song, and I'm sure they won't say nay. 
Come, what shall it be ? " 

" Juanita," briefly answers Lalage, directing her 
eyes straight toward the tall man. 

" Ah ! " The hunchback utters a half-articulate 
cry, excitedly turning to Emoclew. " You say I'm 
mad ; a proof, then," exultingly. " His voice," 
nodding toward the tall man standing motionless, 
both hands thrust within his pockets, " his voice 
for melody was ever like a raven's croak. I've no- 
ticed his efforts at disguise, all day. Let him sing 
and I will believe you and know myself mad indeed. 
" What," scofhngly, as the other vouchsafes no an- 
swer, " you'll surely grant so slight a favor? " 



Black Butterflies 299 



" Let him get his wind first," mutters Emoclew. 

" A song — a song ! " still cry the merry group at 
the window. 

" You shall have it," jeers the hunchback. 
" Come ! " calling loudly ; " Julian — Julian Dacre 
will sing." 

The tall man, standing on the rim of outer dark- 
ness (to him the edge of heaven or hell), casts a 
quick, helpless glance upon the speaker. Then his 
eyes rest once more upon that beautiful face framed 
in leaves and shadows. Against the wall, in rich 
clusters, the jessamine clings, knocking its scented 
blossoms against her cheek, and a soft tendril of 
glowing hair, lifted by the evening breeze, sweeps 
lightly across her forehead. 

Seemingly quite oblivious to the others, his ador- 
ing eyes drink in the sight. The glamour of her im- 
perial beauty is strong upon him. His heart beats 
wildly; he whispers her name beneath his breath — 
every nerve aches with pain. 

And now, when he remembers how brief that 
happiness must be, a death-like chill falls on him, for 
it seems that life must surely end, and ■ 

" We are waiting for you, Julian." 

At the unexpected sound of her voice he starts 
violently, shivering from head to foot and manages 
to stammer some confused, apologetic reply. 

" Bah ! " cries Kath Brabazon, " The night air, 



300 Black Butterflies 

forsooth ! Don't accept any such flimsy excuse, Mrs. 
Demaris." 

He shrinks from those lustrous eyes which are 
regarding him in surprise and evident displeasure. 

Unobserved Emoclew makes Paolo a swift, mys- 
terious sign. The tall man moves back a step, leav- 
ing his face in deeper shadow, and instantly a mag- 
nificent, rich tenor voice bursts forth, singing — 

" Soft o'er the foun — tain, Ling'ring falls the southern moon ; 
Far o'er the moun — tain, Breaks the day — too soon" — 

firm, clear, to the end of the song; then repeats the 
following lines — 

"When, in thy dreaming, Moons like these shall shine again, 
And, daylight beaming, Prove thy dreams are vain." — 

at the conclusion of which, quick, sharp, a shot rings 
out, and the hunchback falls lifeless at the supposed 
singer's feet, a red blotch of blood circling, slowly 
spreading, flowing from his breast to mingle with 
the crimson roses growing near. 

And at the window, the laughing jest is frozen 
on their lips. 

" I said there were risks to run, dangers to en- 
counter, but, by Brahma ! " gloomily, " I never ex- 
pected, reckoned on this." 

" Yet is it not well — better thus ? " Clasping the 
Hindu's hands. " You are my salvation." 



Black Butterflies 301 

The other shakes his head gloomily, and the 
shadows lay dark upon his brow. There is a 
shadowy change in Emoclew's demeanor; his man- 
ner is, as usual, kind, gentle; but the shadow re- 
mains. 



XXIV 

" Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, 
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream. 
Immortal man ! behold her glories shine, 
And cry, exultingly, ' They are thine ! ' 
Gaze on, while yet thy gladdened eye may see; 
A morrow comes when they are not for thee." 

" By all the powers ! You ? " 

" Yes, I'm like the proverbial bad shilling." 

" Poor, abused shilling," with a breezy laugh and 
hearty handshake. " Thrice welcome." 

" Thanks awfully, old chap," sinking with a sigh 
of contentment into the comfortable chair placed for 
him. " I've been wandering through the rooms for 
half an hour — not a servant within sight nor ear- 
shot. All the place seems asleep ; should have given 
up the search in despair if Nero hadn't understood, 
taken pity on my sorry plight and guided me here." 

" It is past the noon hour, and you forget what 
lazy beggars the Italians are." 

" Phew ! Deucedly hot. The day is a furnace ; 
my head reels like the dickens. Didn't meet a soul 
on the tramp over except a couple of monks." 

" You do look nearly frizzled," sympathetically. 
" The walk in this broiling heat has been a little too 

302 



Black Butterflies 303 

much for you. Just wait a second," touching a 
small bell, " I'll offer you a glass of the finest Cham- 
bertin you ever tasted ; it's been on ice since morning, 
and you'll be as fit as a fiddle in no time if," du- 
biously, " I can manage to awaken one of those slug- 
gards." 

" It will require a Hercules to do that, and my 
throat's as dry as parchment. 

" Patience, my boy," sending another louder, more 
determined peal echoing through the deathlike still- 
ness — " Ah, Marco," to the yawning attendant, " a 
couple of goblets, the wine, some fruit, and look 
sharp about it." 

" And now," after the man returns with the tray 
of desired refreshments, " what good wind has blown 
you here? Come, give an account of yourself and 
your doings." 

" Oh, I've been knocking around in Germany, 
Norway, Russia and different places." 

" So you've come to Italy to rest, after all the 
gayeties of the world, eh? " 

" Humph ! Just got in from Naples this morn- 
ing. Beastly dull; missed you awfully." 

" Yes," and with another laugh the debonair 
young host clinks glasses with his guest, " Yes, 
we've had some ripping old times together, and," 
soberly, " it's good of you to look me up so soon. 
But what's the matter ? " noting for the first time 
the other's haggard face, the crow's-feet around the 



304 Black Butterflies 

eyes and the hair about the temples so scant, gray. 
" You don't look up to much; been ill? " 

" Not physically." 

"AndNestora?" 

" That is what has brought me to Italy — Nes- 
tora," gloomily, " is ailing; they sent for me. The 
doctor orders her immediately to the south of 
France." 

" Nothing serious, I trust? " 

" I think, I hope not. It is merely the climate 
which is too debilitating for so delicate a child. The 
doctor assures, encourages me with the belief that 
with the passing years she will outgrow her present 
fragility and become strong, robust." 

" Well, cheer up, old chap," answers the other, 
refilling the glasses, " and let us drink to little Nes- 
tora's health and speedy recovery." 

" With all my heart," says the visitor, lifting the 
glass thirstily to his lips. 

The young fellow resumes his seat on the window- 
ledge, and catching each side of the casing with both 
hands, elevates his somewhat effeminately-shod heels 
in the air, swinging far backward. 

From where he sits he can see Nero, who has 
again returned to his nap on that part of the ve- 
randah which is visible, supported on its slender 
white marble pillars against which the hot sun glares 
dazzlingly. 

Beneath, the lawn rolls smoothly green ; a broken 



Black Butterflies 305 

statue, further off, a gardener's ladder leans propped 
against a gnarled tree ; a sun-dial, a bucket of water 
on whose edge several pigeons are perched, dipping 
their bills therein or pluming themselves industri- 
ously. Then his eyes turn longingly, lingering with 
a dreamy intentness upon a variegated patch of 
color from whence a delicious, languorous odor 
creeps. Her rose garden. His heart quickens, and 
catching a firmer grip he leans farther out. It is 
deserted. What an idiot he is ; much as she loves her 
roses, she could not venture out in this beastly heat. 

Through the narrow spaces of the interlaced trees 
he catches fitful visions of the beach and a few pic- 
turesque fishermen sitting or stretched dozing in the 
impromptu shade made by their upturned boats, wet 
leaves twisted about their heads and swarthy brows 
to guard against sunstroke ; while gleaming far away 
in the level distance is the calm, blue Mediterranean, 
not a ripple nor fleck of foam on its placid surface, 
dotted sparsely with tiny craft whose white sails 
hang motionless. The air is hushed; the heat in- 
tense. 

But the interior of this long, low villa, so care- 
fully screened by gaily-striped awnings, and espe- 
cially here where the two men are, is almost cool, for 
from the marble-paved vestibule a miniature foun- 
tain plays incessantly, tossing sparkling drops up- 
ward to fall, dash, splatter the huge urns of brilliant 



306 Black Butterflies 



flowers near by and ferns and moss growing thickly 
at its base. 

" Jove ! old chap," says Emoclew, filling his glass 
for the third time, " you dropped into jolly com- 
fortable quarters. How happened your lines to fall 
in such pleasant places ? " 

" By chance ; owner gone over to America to study 
the voting system, I understand, or something con- 
nected with politics. Got it for a year; mere song." 

" You are fortunate ; the house is an Elysium, and 
the garden a Paradise." 

" Yes," laughs il signor, still balancing himself 
lightly on the window-ledge, regardless of the sun 
streaming down in broad, yellow ribbons horizontally 
upon his unprotected head. " Yes," surveying the 
tangled background over his shoulder, " though 
some of those old trees want lopping, sadly; the 
garden is a perfect wilderness." 

" You have no eye for the picturesque, evidently. 
An artist would go into rhapsodies over those an- 
cient olive and orange trees. Tell me," says Emo- 
clew suddenly, " you have not been idle, not merely 
an uninterested spectator of Humanity's struggle — 
what masterstroke have you attempted for the com- 
monwealth of the world? You have," eagerly, 
" accomplished something — what is it ? " 

" No ; I let everything in that line rest on the knees 
of the gods. Briefly, I've done nothing." 



Black Butterflies 307 

" Nothing? " in an awed tone of dismay, " noth- 
ing, with your literary talents and " 

" Faugh ! my friend ; literary talents, forsooth ! 
Better clothe the naked with the rags consumed; 
build them houses with the forests destroyed for the 
useless manufacture of paper." 

" It appears the sugar still sticks to the wings of 
your Pegasus. Hold on; be careful or you'll pitch 
heels over head out of that window yet, Guy " 

" Hush ! " The young fellow brings himself up 
sharply, lifting a warning finger. " Hush ! Don't 
remind me of that; it's so long ago — ages — since 
I've heard that name. Sounds odd; I'd almost for- 
gotten, so completely is my identity sunk in the 
Bygone." 

" And your conscience, that troublesome con- 
science," bitterly, " is at rest; laid deep beneath the 
daisies, I suppose." 

" Yes," casting a furtive, fleeting glance toward 
the mirror opposite, " as utterly extinct as the 
dodo." 

" Hem ! " dryly, " I see your beauty recompenses 
you for everything." 

II signor laughs at this little thrust, once more 
gazing complacently into the glass to give a fastidi- 
ous twitch to his azure-hued tie. Indeed, he seems 
to have a decided penchant for contemplating his 
pleasing reflection, seemingly prompted by an al- 



308 Black Butterflies 

most childish delight and pleasure entirely devoid of 
either vanity or conceit. 

" Hem ! " continues Emoclew-Houssein Rao, dis- 
approvingly regarding a crimson rose upon the 
table, " I'll wager you read Tennyson, too, and that 
you are a regular attendant at drawing-room meet- 
ings. You'll be going in for crewel-work next." 

" Perhaps," is the good-natured rejoinder. 

" Well, you're certainly a queer fellow to resign 
a vast fortune for — What the devil ? " 

" Pardon ! " throwing the lighted match which he 
has just snatched from the other's fingers, " Pardon, 
old man, but that stuff in those bottles at your elbow 
is highly explosive; a spark near them, and pouf! 
we would both be blown to Kingdom Come." 

" Going in for chemistry, eh ? " glancing around 
with swift, keen eyes, and noticing for the first time 
that the room is fitted up as a sort of laboratory 
with its glass jars, twisted tubes, etc. Then gaz- 
ing ruefully at his unlit cigarette, " Well, if you 
want to potter with anything so dangerous you'd 
better wear a mask, as the Borgias did, or you may 
spoil that handsome face of yours. A dangerous 
business, my boy; better find some other hobby or 
fad." 

" No," gravely, " I have no time to gallop around 
on hobby-horses, and a poor man can't afford fads. 
It's a scheme which has haunted my brain for years. 
No — oh, no ! " — laughing lightly at the other's swift 



Black Butterflies 309 

look of inquiry — " not that. It's — in short, it's a 
camera. " 

" A camera ? " 

" Aye, an instrument that will portray color." 
" So ! " heaving a ponderous sigh and filling an- 
other glass of wine ; " so this is what has kept you 
a recluse while I erroneously imagined you still tied 
to a woman's apron-string, when, if I'd stopped to 
consider, I might have known you'd gotten over all 
that damned foolishness long ago. Forgive me, 
Guy — ah," — noticing the other wince — " er — of 
course, — Julian, I have wronged you and am glad 
to learn you've been better employed ; though," eye- 
ing the surrounding paraphernalia narrowly, " I 
haven't much faith in your undertaking; it's been 
tried before." 

" True," quietly, " everything's been tried before. 
I've almost perfected my purpose." 
" The deuce you have ? " admiringly. 
" And with it I hope to retrieve my lost fortune." 
" Ha ! " setting down the empty glass. " Has 
the fabulous price which the Prince di Dernovi paid 
for ' Rose-Doomed ' — a sum which set the tongues 
of two continents wagging — has that colossal sum 
vanished so soon, then? " 

" Soon ? It is six months since, and " 

" Ah, I see," answers Emoclew with a covert 
sneer. " I've been mistaken, then. Some luxuries," 



310 Black Butterflies 

significantly, " come expensive, and — you still love 
her?" 

" Love her ? God, man ! I " 

He stops abruptly, and Emoclew, following his 
eyes, drops the cigarette to the floor, for Lalage, 
clad in a white gown, which, unconfined by either 
belt or ribbon, falls in long, loose folds from neck 
to toe, her beautiful hair, rumpled in pretty disor- 
der about temples and nape, indicating that she has 
just awakened from sleep, stands on the threshold. 
Starting perceptibly at sight of the unexpected 
visitor, she hesitates an instant, then smilingly ex- 
tends her hand with a few gracious words of wel- 
come. Lifting the rose from the table, she moves 
slowly over to il signor, who, drawing her close 

within his arms, tenderly kisses lip and brow. 
******** 

" You have an ideal retreat here," says Emoclew 
an hour later as he idly stirs his glass of iced tea 
surmounted by a thin slice of lemon, " an ideal re- 
treat; an excellent substitute for Heaven or the 
Garden of Eden." 

" Yes, either one," answers Lalage, who, like a 
tall, white calla lily, swings languidly back and forth 
in the low rocking-chair, " but we — I am growing 
abominably lazy. My husband has not yet suc- 
cumbed to the Italian indolence; he is working like 
a Trojan, poor dear. When we first took this villa 
and he fitted up his laboratory the people around 



Black Butterflies 311 

here imagined we — " with a happy laugh, " were 
Nihilists and were manufacturing dynamite and 
bombs. Droll, wasn't it ? " 

" Just think how wonderful it will be, though ; 
an instrument that will instantaneously capture na- 
ture, no bother with brushes nor nasty, vile-smelling 
paint to daub and smear over everything. My hus- 
band is so enthused over it he positively refused an 
exorbitant offer to produce a companion piece to 
* Rose-Doomed/ and," proudly, " there are several 
art connoisseurs now clamoring for ' Phryne,' one 
of his earliest works. He is everlastingly experi- 
menting on me, and is so disconsolate, claiming the 
lens will not do me justice nor catch the exact shade 
of my eyes and hair." 

" That's true," answers il signor, " she is a veri- 
table chameleon. I swear her hair this morning was 
the color of gold, her eyes gray — gray as that bird's 
wing," pelting the pigeon, who has ventured within 
the vestibule, with a bread crumb, " and, presto ! 
this afternoon, look ! her hair is red, her eyes greener 
than emeralds." 

" You are hopelessly color-blind, I think," laughs 
his wife, " or what a weird, uncanny creature T 
must be." 

" Weird, uncanny — yes. Yet beautiful withal." 

" Oh, flatterer," cries she, tapping him on the 
shoulder with the rose. " Do you know," turning 



312 Black Butterflies 

to Emoclew, " do you know that I am a very silly 



woman 



? » 



Silly? " interrogatively, " Why? " 

" Because I'm so ridiculously in love with my 
husband. No," willfully, as 11 signor protests, 
" I won't be still. Yes, madly, hopelessly in love. 
And strange, too," suddenly lapsing into a graver 
mood, " at one time I positively hated him ; but now, 
somehow, he is — in fact — vastly different — that is, 
I mean in actions' and disposition ; and he's become 
altogether my ideal — the ideal I'd been longing, 
waiting for all my life." 

" Oh," exclaims il signor, " sweet wife, spare my 
blushes ! " 

" It is queer, and may be only fancy on my part," 
she goes on, " but ever since that wretched Erlynde 
shot himself, Julian is changed — completely 
changed. I could almost, as that poor fellow in his 
madness did, imagine him another person; if so," 
with a low, soft laugh, oblivious to the swift, sig- 
nificant look which passes between the two men, 
" I am the beneficiary. But apropos to changing the 
subject, which, by the way, seems to bore you, tell 
me," appealing to Emoclew, " whom you met 
abroad?" 

" Well," slowly stirring his tea, thoughtfully, " to 
begin with, I met Mrs. Fairfax — I humbly beg her 
pardon; I meant, of course, Mrs. Trevor — she and 



Black Butterflies 313 

her husband and Bobs, in Vienna; in fact it was 
from her I learned your present whereabouts." 

" Dear Trix," pensively sighs Lalage, scattering 
a handful of crumbs to the pigeons who flock appre- 
hensively about them. " And Bobs ? " 

" Bobs is still — Bobs. That reminds me," laugh- 
ing somewhat awkwardly, " I'm commissioned by 
that small person to deliver a — kiss in her name, 
which pleasure I'll waive in favor of your husband, 
who, no doubt, will be delighted to present it per- 
sonally." 

" Then," smiles she, leaning coyly toward il sig- 
nor, " I'll claim my due, sir, without delay." 

" I," continues Emoclew, " met Mrs. Nettleton at 
Monte Carlo, who immediately begged a small 
loan." 

" Ha, ha ! " laughs il signor. " Exactly like her. 
Joan's an inveterate, thorough-paced gambler ; you'll 
never see the color of your cash again." 

" Don't expect to," with an indifferent shoulder 
shrug. " I also ran across Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, 
and — er — " hesitatingly, " Mr. Hyde at Carlsbad." 

" Yes," tranquilly replies Lalage, " they eloped 
a month ago." 

" Indeed? " with a slight uplifting of his brows. 
" I noticed the women all seemed to give them a 
wide berth. Hyde was confined to an invalid's chair 
— bad attack of the gout and cross as a bear; Mrs. 
Stryker looked downright miserable." 



314 Black Butterflies 

" Serves her right," calmly, " for her folly. Yes- 
terday's paper stated that the courts have granted 
Teddy a divorce, and now I persume he and Peggie 
Padelford will marry — . But why don't you drink 
your tea? It is not," anxiously, " too strong, is 
it?" 

" No, no," hastily. " It's nectar for the gods ; 
but " 

" You've drank too much horrid wine," severely, 
" and now you want to smoke that cigarette you're 
so plaintively regarding. Well, light it. I enjoy 
an occasional smoke myself, and will join you if," 
stretching her hand toward him, " you will let me 
have one of yours. Of course," nodding laugh- 
ingly toward her husband, " he will be cross with 
me," as Emoclew appears a trifle discomfited at the 
suggestion. " See," looking over her shoulder with 
a little deprecatory grimace, " he's looking horridly 
savage now; he may even beat me after you have 
gone — ah, thanks." 

" And now, a fair exchange," says Emoclew, 
contentedly puffing his long-delayed cigarette. 
" What's the news here? " 

" None," promptly. " The truth, I assure you," 
at his incredulous look, blowing a perfect set of 
rings from between her lips. " We live such un- 
eventful lives in this place; though next month it 
will be somewhat different. Mrs. Arbuthnot," with 
a fleeting glance from beneath her long lashes, " and 



Black Butterflies 315 

Miss Brabazon are coming to make us a visit. Kath 
and Valentine Hume are to be married soon ; she is 
preparing her trousseau now. Mr. Invorarity has 
also promised to run over for a week." 

" Ah ! " shortly. 

" It's really a thousand pities," with a gay nod, 
" that you can't contrive to remain till then. Can't 
you ? " pleadingly. 

" No," drawing a deep breath, " much as I should 
like to, it is utterly out of the question." 

" But," insists she, " you may return ? " 

" I may return? " vaguely. " When? " 

As he speaks his glance strays to his host, whose 
eyes are resting with a curious, dreamy look upon an 
ominous, dark cloud sullenly sailing toward the 
east; and then with a few brief words of farewell, 
Emoclew departs, stubbornly refusing all induce- 
ments to remain. 

Long, long after his departure, and Lalage has re- 
tired, il signor still lingers gazing wistfully at the 
murky cloud. He had noticed a strange repression 
in Emoclew's manner — an austere air of self-re- 
serve. 'Tis true he scarcely alluded to the past, yet 
his demeanor suggested its vivid remembrance. 
And then, too, he is greatly changed, as if suffer- 
ing under a severe, harassing strain. What is 
it ? Something, surely ; a nameless something, hint- 
ing at the probability of that which covers him with 
terror, as his thoughts fly naturally toward Lalage. 



3 1.6 Black Butterflies 

Hitherto there had never been a crumple in the 
rose-leaf of their married happiness, which has been 
complete; in truth, the very dolce far niente of love. 
And now — now, when he has allowed himself to be- 
come so inured, secure in that love, this first visit 
from Emoclew-Houssein Rao awakens within his 
breast a chill presentiment of impending peril. 

" Great heavens, man ! What's up ? " regarding 
the other in amazement, who, without acknowledg- 
ing his cordial greeting, stands moodily with down- 
bent head before him. " Well," impatiently, 
"speak!" 

Emoclew lifts his heavy eyes, letting them rove 
vacantly about the room, then through the open win- 
dow, steadfastly avoiding the other's glance, who 
sits clutching the arms of his chair, and gazes at him 
with strong, fierce intensity. 

" Come ; out with it, man ! What's the row ? " 

" Doorga," Emoclew's voice is low, sepulchral, 
" Doorga is displeased." 

At these words a cold thrill of horror assails his 
listener; a hand of ice is at his heart; his limbs 
quake beneath him. 

" Yes," repeats Emoclew, his eyes fixed gloom- 
ily on the swaying branches, " ma Doorga is dis- 
pleased." 

"What insane nonsense is this?" the other 
gasps. " What are you raving about ? " 



Black Butterflies 317 

" I tell you," sullenly, " Doorga is angry." 

" Awfully sorry, I'm sure," with a forced laugh, 
and by a stupendous effort gaining self-mastery. 
" Has," flippantly, " has your goddess eaten any- 
thing which has disagreed with her liver and tem- 
per?" 

" Scoff ! Jeer ! You will, as I have had to do, 
accept the fact. Ah, when Paolo was killed I 
scorned, refused to credit it; but now, day by day, 
slowly, surely, my Nestora droops. She will be 
taken from me. Therefore," solemnly, " I must, 
as far as it lies in my power, undo the mischief I 
have unwittingly wrought. Will you assist me ? " 

" What ? " A dull flush overspreads his face as 
he stammers. " What in thunder do you mean ? " 

" Doorga orders, insists, that you give the woman 
up." 

" Not I." 

" You must." 

" Never ! " The flush deepens, and Emoclew, 
glancing sidewise at him, is fully aware of the pain 
and anger he is inflicting upon him who returns the 
glance coldly, steadily, and slowly arising to his feet 
shouts : 

" Never ! Do you hear ? Go — " hurling the 
words at him — " tell your infernal goddess that, 
with my compliments, and be damned to her and — 
you ! " and lifting, snaps his fingers defiantly high in 



318 Black Butterflies 

the air. The action is contemptuous in the extreme 
— contemptuous and insolent. 

Thus the solid ground upon which these two — 
more than brothers in affection — have stood, is sud- 
denly cleft in twain; a chasm yawns between, sepa- 
rating them completely, hopelessly unbridgable — 
wide, wider than the North and South poles. 

Emoclew-Houssein Rao and he have henceforth 
forsworn all fealty to each other and are now 
as enemies. 



XXV 

" 'My own free will and act/ and yet you err, 
For I will do this ! Doubt not — fear not ; I 
Will be your most unmerciful accomplice !" 

" Asura, Emoclew-Houssein Rao, thou demon 
sprung from the mouth of Brahma, thou enemy of 
the gods and the holy inhabitants of Palala, what 
wouldst thou with me, thou whose presence is poi- 
sonous and thy breath pestilence in the air? Speak 
quickly, that thou mayst be gone and pollute my 
sight no longer." 

" Oh, holy Brahmin ! Thou who couldst destroy 
a Rajah, thou who by thy life-long sacrifices and 
divine imprecations can form new gods, new worlds, 
new mortals, help me, I implore thee, or my child 
dies." 

" So, thou apostate one returneth, carrying thy 
corrupt body along on thy belly as doth the snake, 
to plead with me — me, whom at thy birth thy 
parents summoned to give thee Yaman-putri," 
(cast his horoscope) " me, whom later, in thy inso- 
lent youth, thou scorned, reviled and " 

" Cast not those manifold early sins upon me, O 
mighty one ! " 

319 



320 Black Butterflies 

" Ha ! Like all cravens, thou lovest not to hear 
the truth. Didst not Brahma honor thee, whom he 
commanded to read, teach the Veda? Didst thou 
not, from thy eighth year, wear the three strands 
which gave to thee the title of the Thrice Born? 
And didst not thou refute all this? " 

" O noble one," wails the weeping wretch, his 
forehead still pressing the ground, " pity me in my 
extremity, I beseech thee." 

" And why now, with womanish lamentations, 
after thou hast embraced the false teachings of that 
vile sect, Brahmo-Somaj, and wantonly slighted 
Gutama, Sankya and Visheshinka — those gods who 
have ever been our faithful guides since time im- 
memorial — thou comest to me? " 

" Help me," moans the unhappy man, writhing 
amid the dust, " Ma Doorga threatens and my 
child's life hangs by a thread. Thy words are true; 
thy wrath just, thy prophecy fulfilled. A chandalah 
must I be, O venerable sage! my home nowhere, 
compelled to herd with goats and asses, despised by 
all, yet will I complain not if thou wilt extend one 
grain of forgiveness, so that Doorga may deign 
to hear and understand. Help me, noble, generous 
one, and I will ever delight to do thy bidding, serve 
thee blindly, unquestioningly, as thy bonded slave. 
I swear by my dead wife's memory to devote this 
life to thy will everlastingly." 

A swift look of exultation darts to the listener's 



Black Butterflies 321 

cunning eyes, a blaze of triumph illuminates his 
stoical face, which instantly vanishes, leaving it dull, 
lifeless again, as he answers the reckless words 
coldly. 

" Thy request, accursed one, is entirely beyond 
the annals of reason." 

" Mercy " 

" Silence ! Listen. Yet will I consider it if " 

" Ah," joyously, " thou wilt " 

" Yet, will I consider it ; nay, even grant thee 
complete absolution, will reinstate, return to thee 
thy former home, and prestige — on conditions." 

" Name them," eagerly. 

" Leave forever, then, the country of the cursed 
Infidel. Return, abide thou in the land of thy 
fathers to mourn, expiate thy sins. Thus shalt thy 
young child's life be spared, and thyself saved the 
chandalah's ignoble fate; live once more in honor 
and affluence amongst thy people. Doth promise? " 

" Yes, yes ! Thy penance is only too light, most 
gracious one." 

" Good ! " As he speaks, the priest, who has 
hitherto sat cross-legged, motionless, his hands 
loosely clasped across his breast, slowly arises, the 
extreme meagreness of his body plainly visible 
through his yellow robe, and signs for the kneeling 
supplicant to do likewise. " Good ; come thou then 
with me." 

5JC 5jC 5JC JjC 3|C 3J* *f+ 3^ 



322 Black Butterflies 

" Bhowanee ! " recoiling with a smothered shriek. 

" Yes," lifting the flickering taper, thus revealing 
the colossal statue more plainly ; " yes, my son," 
with a sly leer, " thy precipitance is correct ; this is 
in truth the hallowed sanctuary of Bhowanee." 

" But," fearfully, why why ? " 

" Bhowanee, divine wife of Siva, who first ap- 
peared on earth upon the banks of the Hooghly. 
Prepare thou to do her honor." 

At these words Emoclew breaks into wild, mirth- 
less laughter, mentally conjecturing why his uncle 
chooses to joke on such a grewsome subject at so 
unseemly a time, then pauses suddenly, struck with 
dumb wonderment, for Amajee Baber, regarding 
him sternly and pointing with shaking finger to the 
hideous idol whose ugly white eye-balls gleam evil, 
fiendishly from out the gloom, speaks angrily, a 
change coming over him horrible to see, whilst the 
calm, plaintive, even tones of his voice become nasal, 
strident. 

" Hast so soon forgotten thy oath ? Come hither. 
Bend thy knee in homage to her whom thou must 
henceforth worship. Prostrate thyself. She is 
love; she is hate; she is terror, revengeful, forgiv- 
ing, harmful, benignant. She is the producer and 
the destroyer; the one whom thou must recognize, 
obey above all others, for I am but her vassal." 

Emoclew turns giddy, dimly grasping the ap- 
palling fact, the truth of which he had never the re- 




"Hast thou so soon forgotten thy oath ? 



Page J22. 



Black .Butterflies. 



Black Butterflies 323 

motest suspicion of till now, as the frightful truth 
for the first time slowly dawns upon his bewildered 
senses — Amajee Baber is an impostor, a living lie, 
for instead of a priest of Brahma, as he pretends to 
be, he is, in secret, a votary of the dreadful Bhow- 
anee, Goddess of Thuggeeism. The horrible knowl- 
edge stuns, sickens him, filling his soul with inde- 
scribable loathing, disgust, as he stands aghast; and 
as his shoulder comes in contact with a motionless, 
naked, loathsome something, covered thickly with 
gray ashes — a human creature, either doing penance 
or supplicating some gift from the goddess — it only 
serves to enhance his terror. 

Upon each side of the huge, clumsy divinity are 
sacred wells, upon whose surface decomposed flow- 
ers float, while scattered about the floor lie masses 
of yellow jessamine, and from a copper vessel the 
blue vapor of incense arises. The odor of the place 
is suffocating; the fetid air reeks with a nauseating 
stench unbearable. 

" Yes," continues Amajee Baber, " since the first 
taste of that fatal goor, I have been secretly devoted 
to Bhowanee's desires, and now that death the un- 
evadable draws near, nearer, necessitating the ap- 
pointment of a successor in my place, I have chosen 
thee." 

" No, no ! " vehemently. 

" To her," unheedingly, " thou must present ghee 
and rice cakes. Seek converts to her faith, that the 



324 Black Butterflies 

sons of this mighty one may flourish as doth our 
sacred banyan-tree which constantly multiplies its 
roots and trunks. Accept her as thy chief deity; 
lay votive offerings at her shrine. Rest from thy 
fruitless wanderings ; live, revere, and forever faith- 
fully serve Bhowanee." 

" I cannot ! It is impossible. Release me, O 
Amajee Baber, from my vow. Bhowanee is the ad- 
vocate of crime, cruelty and death, since her motto 
is, ' Kill— Kill.' " 

But this appeal, as before, passes unnoticed, for 
his uncle, with bowed head and eyes resting on the 
idol, is mumbling a sort of plaint-chant in a dreary 
monotone, running thus : 

" O, Kalee, Mahakalee, Great Goddess, Universal 
Mother ! Even as the waters of the earth flow East- 
ward to the Ganges or Westward to swell the Sind- 
hu. Thus they roll from sea to sea, arising from it 
as clouds, returning thence as rivers, which, having 
no longer any individuality, merge into one. So 
thus it is with mankind: We broaden, disappear, 
blended in one vast whole, and — ■ — " 

" I refuse," interrupts Emoclew, whose head 
reels from the foul air, " to accept what thou offerest 
me. I refuse to kill. I " 

With a furious oath the priest hurls the lighted 
taper full into the speaker's face. 

" Thou Tefusest, eh, thou fool ? Yet kill thou 
shall, or shalt not leave this place alive, since Bhow- 



Black Butterflies 325 

anee, thy Mistress, commands it. Yea, Kill ! Kill ! " 
gesticulating wildly. " Kill the Sikhu ! Kill all ad- 
herents to the cursed English creed, under whose 
government, arrogant law and rule we stand yoked 
today, since that past time we rebelled. Patiently, 
uncomplainingly had we submitted to that despotic 
will. Aye, even when, regardless of our prayers, 
protestations, they insulted our religion by openly 
slaughtering kine, and finally, when they consum- 
mated that crowning indignity by forcing the grease 
of the cow and swine upon our lips. Our outraged 
spirits could tolerate their affronts no longer, and we 
arose and would have won, but for the vile, treacher- 
ous Feringeea who betrayed us. Hast forgotten all 
that? Hast forgotten Tania Topee, who repre- 
sented Nana? Fought desperately, but alas! lost. 
He who lived a devoted follower of Bhowanee, and 
died with her loved name upon his lips? Hast for- 
gotten, too," speaking sadly, his anger slowly abat- 
ing, " hast forgotten the noble Ranee of Jhansi ? 
Most beautiful, bravest of her sex, who, clad in male 
attire, headed the gallant Gwalior Contingent 
Cavalary, whom the cowardly English dogs shot 
down and broke the aching heart of India ? 

"Hast forgotten all this, my son? If so," sol- 
emnly, " Bhowanee remembers and patiently awaits 
vengeance." As he ceases Emoclew moodily asks : 

" What dost thou and thy goddess desire of me ? 
It shall be done." 



326 Black Butterflies 

" Thou cravest a life/' answers Amajee Baber 
significantly. " A woman-child's life. Bhowanee," 
as Emoclew nods an eager affirmative, " will grant 
thy wish; but for that life, one woman must thou 
kill." 

" Remember and be proud, then, in the knowledge 
that thou hast sprung from Sagartii, he who fur- 
nished Xerxes' immense army with horse. Thug- 
geeism has lasted for centuries, and shall, despite all 
obstacles, continue. And now, my son, go. Peace 
be with thee ! Thou hast sworn by the sacred Kus- 
see. It is not murder by man's deed, but through 
the will of the Deity. Journeyst thou quickly to be- 
hold with thine own eyes, and if thou findest from 
this hour thy child's health not improved, I will offer 
my head to the noose." 



XXVI 

"My dream was past; it had no further change. 
It was of a strange order, that the doom 
Of these two creatures should be thus traced out 
Almost like a reality." 

" What ! You here again ? I was in hopes you 
had disappeared from off the face of the earth. 
Why " 

Stopping short, for the intruder, gloomily fixing 
his sad, hollow eyes upon him, now with one swift 
step has reached his side, and roughly seizing his 
hand, menacingly cries : 

" Listen to me ! Do you still refuse to accede to 
my demand ? " 

At these words a sensation of deadly fear, which 
the speaker had so often inspired in him before, 
now assails him, whose lacerated soul strives valiant- 
ly to conquer the repugnance and absolute loathing 
which Emoclew's presence now engenders, and he 
beseeches : 

" Give me time, Emoclew, just " 

" No ! " sternly. " I will not budge from my reso- 
lution, nor abate one jot of my demand." 

" And when you have gained your desire, what 
satisfaction will you have in the knowledge that in 

327 



328 Black Butterflies 

rending our lives asunder you have broken two 
hearts? What," pleadingly, "will you gain?" 

" Ah ! What will I gain ? That which will be the 
light of my existence, shedding sunshine on my 
desolate soul. One who will restore to me my peace 
of mind; the one existing love of my life, that pure 
passion whose roots are sunk deep within, and whose 
tendrils are twined tightly around my heart. The 
life," reverently, " the life of my dear child." 

" But see," pleadingly, " I will give you gold ; 
you shall build a temple of gold to your goddess, 
and " 

" No ; ma Doorga scorns such gifts. Have I not 
ransacked the East in quest of priceless offerings? 
She rejects them all — everything, till we grant her 
wishes." 

" I cannot, I cannot," looking imploringly into the 
Hindu's face, to meet naught but that fixed, glassy 
stare which fills his soul with more deadly terrors 
than death. " I beseech you, Emoclew, for her sake, 
— for that other — the child whom we so soon ex- 
pect. It is impossible. Torture me no longer." 

" Your talk is madness." 

" Madness to you, perhaps. But for this I have 
paralyzed my moral nature; annihilated my con- 
science; destroyed it so completely I have no longer 
any conception of its meaning. When you tempted 
me, do you imagine I expected this ? " falling on his 
knees and clasping the man's hands, which are an- 



Black Butterflies 329 

grily withdrawn. " It was a crime — a crime to cast 
me into this vortex of horror in which I am now 
struggling. O, Emoclew, once my friend, have 
mercy — have pity ! " 

But Emoclew's ears are seemingly as deaf, unfeel- 
ing as the wheels of the car of the Juggernaut as it 
rolls over the mangled bodies of its frenzied wor- 
shipers, and for the third time he sullenly answers, 

"No!" 

" I never realized the consequence till now, 
and " 

" Realize it fully, then : if you suffer, do I like- 
wise, and have striven by every means to spare you 
— by repeatedly puncturing my tortured flesh to 
offer the blood to Doorga ; and now, as a last resort, 
I am here to advise you for the last time, to accept 
the unavertible. 

" Your upbraidings are fully merited ; but have 
you forgotten? The exchange was to be but tem- 
porary. With Julian Dacre's death, however, it was 
not possible to resume that which you had given. 
With death, as I before stated, my power ends. 
The dead man's body you must retain until the In- 
finities call, and his spirit wander ceaselessly till 
then." 

Dumb with misery the man lifts his eyes to meet 
those of Emoclew, fraught with impatience, wrath, 
exasperation. Again he strives to reach those 
hands, and, failing, clutches, kisses the dirt-begrimed 



33° Black Butterflies 

hem of his garments, which are roughly jerked 
away. 

" For God's sake, Emoclew, I entreat you " 

" This is nothing but a foolish lot of tarriddle. 
Leave the infernal Circe who has bewitched you. 
She is a sorceress, a vile, filthy thing and " 

With an oath the other springs to his feet, but 
Emoclew lifts his hand warningly. 

" Doorga commands that you give her up." 

" And," suddenly grown calm with a terrible 
composure, " as I told you before, never, never," 
slowly speaking with deadly earnestness. " Neither 
Doorga, devil nor you shall take her from me. Go ! 
Your demoniac influence, magic power, or whatever 

it is, can avail you nothing. I defy you do your 

worst ! Go ! " 

And Emoclew, with a peculiar, destroying look, 
a glance suggestive of pity, hate, revenge combined, 
glides silently, without a word, from the room. 

With his departure, il signor meditates on the 
direct results of this interview. Never, even in its 
earliest, wildest stages — he had never, till now, 
when threatened by Lalage's loss, fully understood 
the intense depths of his mighty love — this all-ab- 
sorbing passion. And now after possessing her, the 
harrowing possibility that he should resign her is 
madness. And these torturing thoughts sting like 
adders ! Before the vast, black immensity of the 
Future his soul sickens, cowers in terror at the faint- 



Black Butterflies 331 

est chance of losing the happiness which is held in 
the white hands of this one woman. 

These fancies exorcise the evil spirits by which he 
is tormented, spurring him to fury and desperation. 
He remains in solitude. Glancing into the mirror 
the deathly pallor of his face horrifies him, as, think- 
ing of her, he groans : 

" My love — my dear, dear love ! " 

Evening shadows commence to dimly touch the 
interior of the laboratory ; and still he remains alone. 
A stupor, a helpless spell, is over him; that same 
queer, lethargic state which has so often overpow- 
ered him. He sees again that last glance Emoclew 
had given him, and quails, for well he knows that 
this man, now his most ruthless enemy, will gain 
his victory by some means, no matter how foul or 
desperate. One thing alone he is conscious of, and 
that is, on the morrow he will flee — take her to some 
unknown, foreign shore where the threat of separa- 
tion shall no longer menace them. 

Meditating thus, and tired with the day's labor, 
a drowsiness comes over him and he drops into a 
doze. How long it lasts he does not know, but 
awakes with a start, for meanwhile the dusk has 
crept closer, wrapping everything in a gloomy dark- 
ness. He arises, stretching his cramped, aching 
limbs to lean idly against the casement. The heavy, 
fragrant odor of heliotrope, mingled with the per- 
fume from her rose garden, greets his nostrils. 



332 Black Butterflies 



The lawn and garden are folded in slumberous 
quiescence; the leaves are motionless in the breath- 
less atmosphere ; a young moon coyly sheds her radi- 
ance above the trees, glinting ribbon-like upon the 
lawn and broken statue. 

Drearily he watches, mentally deploring, yet re- 
peating the conclusion that he must leave this haven 
of bliss, where true happiness has been complete. 

And now he starts like one shot, for something is 
approaching, skirting the high hedge of rhododen- 
drons. Nearer the phantom comes, swiftly, with 
hooded head. Is it a wraith? No, that dreaded 
presence threatens him once more, winding snake- 
like nearer, stealthily approaching, tall, erect, corpse- 
like, grim, relentless, his Nemesis advances, whilst 
he stands, spellbound, unable to move, watching him 
emerge from the foliage, past the rose garden, he 
comes across the lawn, reaches the verandah, and 
disappears within. 

The watcher awaits his persecutor's step and 
voice, girding himself grimly for the meeting. His 
pulses, heart, have seemingly ceased to beat. Me- 
chanically he measures the distance, duly calculating 
how many seconds must elapse ere those harsh, dom- 
inant tones shall once more fall upon his ears. 

The moments pass ; the allotted time arrives, flits 
by. The man, still waiting, leans against the case- 
ment, when a slight noise below attracts his atten- 
tion. He glances indifferently down. Emoclew is 




" Yet still she breathes ; will there be time ? " 

—P*gt 333- 



Black Butterflies. 



Black Butterflies 333 

gliding forth. With a gesture of reverence and 
triumph the Hindu raises his arms aloft. 

" Bhowanee," the thrilling accents, penetrating 
space, reach the other's ears, clear, distinct. " Bhow- 
anee," he repeats, " I have obeyed thee. Let Door- 
ga's wrath be at last appeased." 

What fatal thing has happened? For fatal it 
surely is. Blindly he stumbles from the room, his 
brain reeling, his limbs almost useless; yet he tot- 
ters laboriously on — on — instinctively divining in 
which direction to search; struggling wildly against 
the terrible restraint which binds him, he reaches 
her room, drags the curtain aside, and lo! there, 
prone upon the floor she lies, a scarf or roomal 
knotted cruelly about her throat. 

Vainly he endeavors to loosen the scarf, pulling 
frantically at the unyielding knot which stubbornly 
resists all efforts — and — oh, God! Lalage's life is 
slipping, swiftly ebbing. Her eyes mutely beg him 
for relief, while he tugs madly at the hellish knot, 
which alas ! he in his pitiable ignorance is drawing 
tighter. Ah ! his knife — his knife ! Searchingly his 
hand slips to his pocket. Oh, he has left it in the 
laboratory! Despair seizes him, yet — still she 
breathes — will there be time ? Yes, he must risk it ; 
it is the only hope. But is his strength equal to the 
task? His trembling limbs are weak, useless, as if 
in the grasp of a thousand giants. Desperately he 
battles for freedom, straining every nerve and mus- 



334 Black Butterflies 

cle in one mighty effort to escape this bondage and 
accomplish that which for her loved sake must be 
done and done quickly. And as he struggles, sud- 
denly, as if by magic, the spell which has hitherto 
bound his body vanishes. Joy! He is free — free ! 
He draws a deep breath of thankfulness ; the relief 
is indescribable, and — ■ — 

"Ho, lazybones!" 

With a wild exclamation Erlynde leaps to his 
feet. 

" Ho, lazybones ! " repeats Miss Brabazon, hold- 
ing a cup toward him. " Here's the tea at last, Guy. 
I'm afraid," apologetically, "I'm afraid it's cold; 
but better late than never — as the copy-books say. 
You had a nightmare, I think; that is, if one can 
have nightmares in the daytime. Your face was 
awful. You were having a fearful tussle with 
Nero's collar. I wanted to awaken you five minutes 
ago, but he," nodding laughingly toward Emoclew, 
" wouldn't let me ; in fact, shook his fist in my face 
and warned me under pain of death not to disturb 
you." 

Erlynde shakes himself vigorously. Emoclew is 
regarding him with a quizzical expression, while 
Trixie, Invorarity and several others, headed by 
Mrs. Lighton-Stryker, stand crowded, smilingly in 
the doorway of the arbor. 

"Tea? Ah! Thanks, awfully," accepting the 
beverage which Kath still holds invitingly toward 



Black Butterflies 335 

him. Yawning and once more shaking himself vio- 
lently, to the immediate danger of the cup which 
bobs, rocks protestingly, " I believe," with a queer 
sense of unreality about him, " I believe I've been 
asleep." 

" I should say you have," says Mrs. Stryker, 
stepping within. " Gave us the slip — stole a march 
on us, an hour ago." 

With Guy Erlynde's awakening comes the bliss- 
ful realization that he is free — entirely free — in- 
different to Lalage Demaris' loveliness, whose 
beauty, as she comes forward, stooping to lift the 
white brier-rose from the ground at his feet, has 
now no further power to thrill him. For, from the 
moment that charmed potion touched his lips, it 
had miraculously slaked his soul of all love and pas- 
sion, turning his blood — which so recently rioted 
like molten lava through his quivering veins — cool, 
placid; whilst enhancing his brotherly affection for 
Emoclew a thousand fold. 

Yes, a happy sense of relief is upon Erlynde ; yet 
he is puzzled, bewildered, as the thought frequently 
intrudes itself — and he often questions his inner fac- 
ulties — was it indeed reality, or had Emoclew, with 
his strong magnetic power, taken advantage of his, 
Erlynde's, susceptibility to regulate the dream to 
suit his own interest and pleasure ? 

And then again, what is that mysterious symbol 
which ever mockingly plays hide and seek with his 



336 Black Butterflies 

treacherous memory; one moment almost within 
his grasp, anon eluding it by a hair's breadth ? What 
is it? Who knows? The secret lies hidden in the 
unfathomable eyes of Emoclew-Houssein Rao. 

l'envoi 

In nature there is nothing puerile, everything be- 
ing sternly matter-of-fact; yet dreams and realities 
often blend. Dreams are merely the brain's vaga- 
ries — however, which oftentimes come true. Nature 
is the book of the universe, containing more actual 
facts than all the literature ever written. 

How frequently a bud, leaf, fruit, bird or insect 
will attract us by the lure of its beauty or peculiarity, 
the study of which contains a mighty lesson, a gigan- 
tic truth essential to human progress, embracing 
more practical knowledge than all the ponderous 
volumes ever written by gray-bearded wiseacres, 
and stupid philosophers' visionary theories. 

Are we not growing weary of nature's monotony 
and persistently deviating from its regular, time- 
worn path ? Are we not trespassing, exploring 
other domains whose laws we boldly violate? Are 
we not venturing far beyond our hitherto privileged 
limits? Are we not daring to challenge the un- 
known — those unknown forces on whom we are be- 
ginning to thrust our ephemeral will? And every 
modest victory will some day hence disclose an in- 
finity of the untold. 



Black Butterflies 337 

In ancient times torture and death awaited the 
oracle ; yet his predictions — met with jeers and deri- 
sion — came true. 

This is an epoch of coming wonders — their 
shadow casts itself before us. Man is slowly trans- 
forming, improving upon nature, and the miraculous 
achievements to be performed by human minds, hu- 
man hands, are incredible. 

There are mighty secrets hidden, slumbering deep 
within the heart of nature — nature at whose lips the 
ever inquisitive ear of science eagerly listens for the 
faintest whisper, to immediately impart those 
secrets to its ally, man, whose supernatural powers 
will awaken, and magic touch develop, draw it forth 
to the gaze of the astonished world. 

Who can foresee from this era the wonders to 
come? Time and patience will work miracles in a 
scientific way, which we of the present cannot real- 
ize. The approaching future will far eclipse the 
petty wonders of the past, and everything that has 
been, or what our puny minds can conceive; for 
nothing can exaggerate that which is possible and 
will be eventually accomplished by man. 

Remember and heed what the apostle Paul says : 

" Quench not the spirit. Despise not prophesy- 
ings. Prove all things ; hold fast to that which is 
good. ,, 

AU REVOIR. 



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